When the Addiction Kicks in, You'd Better Run
by MaybeIt'sTheVodka
Summary: Sequel to my Drugged fic. Red Mist seeks out Kick Ass, but is it to destroy him or for another reason entirely? Sadistic-ness shall ensue. Warnings: darkfic, violence, etc.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: By request, this is the start of the sequel to my Drugged story. A familiarity of that story would probably help your understanding of this one, but I don't think it's absolutely necessary. You just might be slightly confused.  
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_Warnings: Violence, drug references, language to follow. And while I'm not sure yet how much there will be, I am throwing in a slash warning. As I say in most of my fanfics, if boy on boy action offends you, you might want to utilize the back button on your browser. I will state, however, that any slash will most likely be one-sided. This will not be a lemon fic, it just might have a few m/m...elements. For plot purposes. Of course ^_^_

_Standard disclaimer: You know the drill. (Most) characters aren't mine, story isn't mine, nothing I do is of any importance, lalala..._

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The sun was blazing outside, its unforgiving rays hitting stained glass and shooting colored distortions across the opposing wall of the small apartment. Green splotches dotted themselves haphazardly around the room, Rorschach ink blots in color. _'Tell me the first thing you see'. _Larger red patches were a mess of speckled, disastrous loveliness against the wall.

The stained glass was an antique, bought from an excited buyer not for its monetary value, but strictly for its beauty. Unlike the endless rows of New York City doors which surrounded it - adorned only in mundane numerals - this door had character. Maybe not class, but definite character . The rose bush that spread itself out across colored glass was of a considerable size, demanding to be seen. Tacky, yes; but there was something interesting about it nonetheless.

Chris couldn't stop looking at it. The way that the sun caused the colors to almost separate from their original stained-glass home and paint themselves anew against the wall. If he were outside on the street beyond he would never have even noticed it, but standing inside felt like being in some sort of abstract painting. The colors shimmered slightly as the sun's rays softly moved, people walking by outside the closed door kicking up shadows, changing the way it looked. Green and red. Of course the colors had to be green and red. He smiled and took another hit off the joint in his hand. Goddamn, this looked cool. Fucking exquisite, even. The way the red and green danced around each other across the walls, it was like a fucking light show or something.

He brought a gloved hand up to the nearest wall and touched one of the shimmering red marks, then frowned and pulled back. Some of the red wasn't moving with the changing lights. Not flickering with the rest of them. Stepping back, he surveyed the walls again from a different vantage point. Darker red streaks painted the walls, similar but separate from dancing stained glass red. These streaks were more like splatters than anything else. Wet, congealing, dripping splatters. _Oh, right. _

Looking behind himself, he had almost forgotten about Tom. He had gotten so caught up in the brilliant, almost magical light show that the dead man propped awkwardly on the floor behind him had almost slipped his mind. Lifting his other hand, he was almost surprised to see the gun held nonchalantly between his gloved fingers. He shifted his gaze back to the joint, raising his eyebrows quizzically and considered the possibility of putting it out before someone else came home and found a foolishly stoned murderer drooling on their carpet, oohing at their stained glass door.

_ Oh, yeah. And before I forget..._ he went to rifle through his pants pocket, a feat which took longer than expected since it meant he had to first free one of his hands in order to get into said pocket... Gripping the gun between his knees in an effort to hold it without putting it down proved to be an utter failure. The weapon fell to the carpet below, causing him to jump back clumsily and emit a horrified squeal that sounded a little more girly than he would have preferred. In the process, the joint fell to the floor and started to ignite the carpet fibers, which led to much cursing and stomping out of the tiny spark. Finally, after an overabundance of effort, he was able to reach into the leather pocket. He pulled out a crumpled receipt and a small pen with the Bat Symbol emblazoned upon it. Leaning on a nearby table for balance, he struggled for a moment to remember the name that Tom had eagerly told him before he had unapologetically pulled the trigger and splattered Tom's insides across the walls.

Sighing, he put a hand to his ear and felt the blue tooth sitting within. "Angelo?"

There was a bit of static and then a reply. "Did you forget already?"

Chris narrowed his eyes and sighed before he hissed back, "Man, I don't pay you to be a smart-ass. I could easily find another guy to take your place, you know that Angelo?"

There was a pause. Then, "I'm sorry sir."

Chris bit his lip, trying to decide if he was hearing any mockery in Angelo's tone. His thoughts were interrupted by the rest of the response. "He said the name was Dave. Dave Lizuo-itz or something."

"Lizuoitz? Are you sure?"

The Italian accent sounded back at him. "It started with Liz. I'm sure about that much. Lizuoitz, Lizuoishi,...it was hard to hear everything, being as I am on a blue tooth. Maybe you shouldn't have shot him dead yet."

Chris' handwriting stopped suddenly, a cloud of anger beginning to form over his head like a dark storm. His gaze shifted back to the gun, lying on the carpet. "Are you questioning my authority?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry. I simply meant...it doesn't matter. Look, we have a pretty good lead right here as it is. And if we can't track him down, all we need to do is go through the ER records from back when the kid got fucked up. Look for a similar match. Sure, it's a little more work than just asking the paramedic, but seeing as he's currently dead..."

"Shut the fuck up, Angelo! I made a judgment call! I'm the boss, and I make the calls, and I wanted to shoot him!" Chris shook his head, trying to push the anger out of his head. Now wasn't the time for this. Not now. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his head, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, his eyes were once more greeted by the vast array of twisting red and green lights. _Alright. I'm ready._ Snatching up the gun, he made his way toward the stained glass door, that strange gate between sanity and insanity. "I'm coming out, Angelo. Get ready to torch the place." Before walking out, he grabbed the crumpled paper, taking one more look before shoving it back into that cursed pocket. In shaky letters, the words 'Dave Liz' were written out in black "bat ink", composed on the back of an Atomic Comics receipt.

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_Don't worry, the ambulance thing will be explained in the next chapter ^_^_

_As per usual, comments = love_


	2. Chapter 2

_Warnings: So that slash warning I hinted at in the last chapter? Yeah, it definitely makes an appearance here. I'm trying to introduce the psychotic aspects of Chris' character, which is all tied up in sexual tension and confusion. As such, there's a few...um, reactions. _ _

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That thing was happening again. That really annoying spasm in his pants that pitched at the fabric in a delightfully agonizing way. He enjoyed the feeling, it just made him frustrated like nothing else. It made him even more aware that he still hadn't been able to locate Kick Ass, or Dave, as was apparently the superhero's real name. He couldn't help it. For whatever reason, the cruelty of nature had decided it would be amusing to give him a hard-on every time he even thought of those absurdly full lips belonging to his arch-nemesis. He hated Dave for it. Pretty much wanted to punch him in the face because of it. And then _that_ particular thought would just start the cycle all over again...

The curser blinked in and out on the bright screen in front of him. Tauntingly, if it was possible for a computer to taunt, at least. He had tried several variations of Dave's last name over the last hour, submitting them for Google's approval only to be shot down again and again. Not that he entirely knew who he was looking for, considering the fact that he had only seen the boy in question covered in costume. Someone who matched the general age range at least. Of the various picture profiles that came up under the assorted Dave "L" names (thank God for Myspace links), every one so far could be crossed off the list. Too fat, too old, too much of the wrong race. Fucking Angelo, he couldn't believe that asshole hadn't caught the whole name. Of course, there was always the one _other_ option...

His left hand drifted to the phone on the desk and paused. To make the phone call, or not to make the phone call...that was the question. Rick Jameson was the cop who had initially given him the tip that a Brooklyn ambulance paramedic knew the identity of Kick Ass. Tom, the medic in question, had picked up a hit-and-run last year who apparently had been dressed in interesting green spandex attire. Tom hadn't thought much of it at the time (it was New York, after all), but soon after recognized Kick Ass from the viral YouTube video shown on local stations everywhere. The driver kept the secret for months until breaking news showed that Kick Ass was wanted by police for questioning. _Questioning about my dad being dead. _Deciding to be a good little tattletale, Tom had contacted the police with the tip that the kid was on file in ER records. He couldn't remember the kid's name, but described the scene and the general timeframe. It wouldn't be too hard to find if they searched the records. Unluckily for him, he had called the one cop who was currently on Chris' payroll.

Chris grimaced while remembering the end of his phone conversation with Rick.

...

_"Why would it possibly take that long just to find a name?"_

_"You know how this works, Chris. There's a bunch of paperwork I've got to fudge just to even check out the files if I'm gonna keep this under wraps. You don't want the rest of the police force to find out Kick Ass' identity, so it's just gonna be me looking for the name. That could take time. And I'm already swamped as it is."_

_"But I'm fucking paying you to do this shit! I can't believe this."_

_There had been a long pause on the other end of the line, and for a second Chris had wondered if Rick was about to tell him off. He was just a 17 year old brat, after all. He wasn't his father._

_"I can probably get it in a week, a week and a half tops."_

-But I want it NOW-

_"Fuck it all, Rick." His insecurity already fading, "Look, just tell me the name of the paramedic guy and I'll get it."_

_"He doesn't remember the name. It wouldn't do you any good."_

_"He remembers. If I need to smash his face in to jar his memory, I'll get it from him."_

_"But-"_

_"Fuck you, Rick. Maybe you should just count your blessings that I'm not coming to your house instead. I don't even know why my dad employed you in the first place. Fucking slow-ass idiot. Just give me Tom's fucking address within the next 15 minutes or I'm gonna be on your doorstep tonight."_

_And with that, he had slammed down the receiver._

...

Was it worth it now, to call him again after yesterday's disaster of a conversation? Staring down at that same black receiver cradled in its shiny platform, he gulped, weighing the options. He _could _give Rick a call again, but that would probably require some form of apology first, and that would just suck. No, not right now. At least not until he had exhausted other options. And definitely not while he was still pitching a tent. Cause that would just feel awkward.

His fingers flickered back to the keyboard, hovering there for a few seconds before deciding on another possibility. Dave Lizewski. He had had a maid, years ago, with that last name. The surname had suddenly just floated back to him, from somewhere beyond that void of consciousness. Why, or how, he had remembered her now, he had no idea. She had been a bitch. Can't hurt to try though...

Name successfully typed out, he hit the enter key with an unnecessarily forceful strike. Plucking a pen from off the desk, he began to fiddle with it, frustration and boredom clashing in his mind. First result, some guy from a law agency in Chicago. No. Second result, some blurb about a schoolteacher who had recently received an award for his hard work teaching autistic kids for the last 25 years. Nope. Third result...a Myspace link. Click.

The link lit up blue and the page instantly reloaded onto MySpace's domain. A picture appeared on the page. Chris immediately dropped the pen in shock. It rolled across the floor and come to rest under the entrapment of the desk's murky clutches.

_Shit. That's him. Could that be him?_

The smiling face that beamed out at him from the profile picture possessed an astonishing similarity to the features he had perceived from between the mask. Those green eyes, those...those lips. Chris felt his heartbeat speed up and seem to drop off before picking up again. This had to be him. He clicked on the "pics" link and slowly scrolled through image after image. This boy sure had the same body type as Kick Ass, of that he was pretty certain. The only thing that made him even slightly question the match was the fact that this Dave wore slightly baggy clothes, a big difference to the skin-tight outfit normally outfitted by Kick Ass. It made it harder to identify the stomach muscles that Chris, as Red Mist, had acquitted to memory back when the two used to "fight crime". No matter. He'd find out.

Scrolling down through photos of Dave with various friends and (he was not pleased to find) some girl named Katie, he stopped on an older photo and clicked on it. As the image loaded, the caption explained that the picture was taken a couple years ago on Halloween. "I make an awesome Superman!" Dave's statement happily exclaimed. The image blinked into view, fully loaded, and Chris smiled. Even though the photo had been taken two years prior, there was no mistaking the thin frame outlined underneath a tight Superman costume. Dave had put on muscle since then, but the body type was practically identical. He had found his superhero. Now, he just had to figure out where that superhero lived. And more importantly, how to lure him out.

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That night, Chris's dreams were a tumultuous mess. Fevered images of Dave and Kick Ass planted themselves in his dreamscape, superimposing one upon another. The green suit, scuffed up from battle was replaced by floppy brown hair and innocent smile, only to be swapped yet again for shadowy images holding tightly gripped batons. Hit Girl made an appearance only once, wherein she played out her role as executioner as if she had been born for the position. He had felt nothing when she pulled the gun on him. He had been expecting it.

Ironically, the scene was one in which he had already lived out, taking place in that same small apartment. Except that this time he was the one to be shot through the chest. He went flying through the window, shards of glass floating around his head, shining in red and green. The fall seemed to take forever, as so often seems to happen in dreams. When he finally landed, it was on a couch, soft and comforting. There was something about that couch... he never wanted to leave. And then Dave was on top of him, kissing him as if his life depended on it. Somewhere in the background, his dad was making disapproving comments, which he made a point to ignore. Ignoring must have worked, because after awhile the comments stopped.

And then things got a lot more confusing, because Dave kept morphing into Kick Ass and vice versa. Whichever personality it was - Dave or Kick Ass - neither seemed to care that Chris was wielding a knife during their impromptu makeout session. The knife cut crimson slashes across the green nylon Kick Ass wore and decimated the shirt that Dave was wearing. Either way, it didn't slow the shape shifting boy on top one bit. He continued to writhe unapologetically across Chris as his kisses became even more desperate, wandering hands constantly moving up and down Chris' body before ultimately sliding down his pants.

Maybe it was the fact that his dad had suddenly appeared beside the couch, white corpse strewn out on the floor before him and eyes staring out in dead accusation, but Chris slowly lifted the knife yet again and pulled it around to Kick Ass' back. Kick Ass (his current manifestation) just smiled and quietly extracted the hand from leather pants, reaching around and softly taking hold of the weapon. Chris loosened his grip, almost hypnotized, and let the other boy take what had previously been his. With the same hand that held the knife, Kick Ass extended one finger to his lips in a shhh gesture as he continued to pump and thrust his body against the mystified form beneath. It was that in that moment just before Chris was about to admit defeat that Kick Ass stopped and leaned down, wiping a tear from eyes that Chris hadn't even been aware were dripping. And then he was plunging the knife down into Chris' chest, the laughter from a little girl sounding somewhere off in the distance.

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Chris shot up in bed, gasping and grabbing at his sweat-streaked t-shirt. Felt for evidence of blood, invisible in the pitch black room. A couple of seconds clicked by before he realized, with growing relief, that his death had only occurred in dream. With a sigh, his head crashed back down to the pillow as he allowed relief to filter through the last remaining senses of fear still remaining. He let his mind wander back to the dream, or at least the portions that hadn't been reclaimed by that void that steals memories. It wasn't until several minutes later that he realized his boxers, and portions of the bed sheets that surrounded him, were covered with the results of unintended orgasm.

Under normal circumstances, Chris would have shed the clothing as soon as possible and stripped the bed in record time. Clean up the evidence. Wet dream? I don't know what you're talking about... But as it was, he simply rose and made his way through the impossibly dark room, not even reacting when a misplaced shoe faltered his gait and the corner of the desk stubbed his toe. Searching through the dark, his finger found its goal and pressed the power button on the monitor of the computer. Computer already on, the monitor flickered briefly before spilling horrifically bright light into the room. Dave's MySpace page was still up, dorky grin plastered on the profile page, an expression telling of either ignorant bliss or hiding the sinister secret of extracurricular crime fighting. Chris clicked on "pics" once again, scrolling down until he found what he was looking for. Katie Deauxma. So it said in the caption. Her demon face stared outward, both arms squeezed tightly around a smiling Dave. He opened another window and typed the name and city into Google.

"I think I'll start my search for Dave with you," Chris growled, his voice devoid of its usual humor. Enter button punched on keyboard, the computer hummed for a brief second as the search engine prepared its list of prospective results. Someone had once told Chris that Google was like a slot machine. Sometimes you hit the jackpot, sometimes you're met with nothing but duds. He had spent the next fifteen minutes trying to explain that that wasn't, in fact, how Google worked. It wasn't a random set of links, but rather a calculated series of matches. Despite the fact that he had eventually won that argument, the mind-numbingly numerous unsuccessful searches of earlier in the day had made him feel more and more like Google was just a random slot machine, reconfigured so that the house always won and actually finding a particular person was impossible.

The screen reloaded and a set of links appeared before him. He clicked on the first, a link to a local methadone clinic. It loaded straight to the biography page for the volunteers who worked there. The first picture came into view, and Chris smiled. Jackpot. Finally, he had a way to get Dave's attention.

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_Reviews always welcome!_


	3. Chapter 3

"Your paper?" The shrill sudden voice in his ear caused Dave to jolt upwards, readjusting his posture as best as was possible in that hard plastic death-trap of a chair in order to feign the illusion that he'd been paying attention all along. An expectant hand floated near his head, fingers curled like claws. "Paper?" the voice repeated, tired annoyance seeping through every syllable.

"I, uh, don't have it." He kept his gaze from meeting her own.

The woman hovering over him made a sound, something in between a snort and a tsk. Teachers actually made tsk sounds? How comically stereotypical. He would have been more amused if he hadn't been busy trying to hide his embarrassment. As she sauntered down the rest of the aisle collecting papers, he couldn't help but notice Marty giving him a _look _from several rows over _. _A _what the hell were you thinking _look. Yeah, he couldn't deny that he had fucked up. That paper was worth a good 50% of their grade. It was just that lately, school just didn't seem as important as it used to. Not since he had gone on a massive killing spree with Mindy and

had since realized the world was a much bigger and more complicated place than he had previously grasped. Kinda made a nonexistent paper seem stupid and pointless. In the last few weeks, he had done a lot of soul-searching while trying to figure out how he fit into the world. All he knew was that he wanted to be a power for good, a catalyst for change. He wanted to stand for something.

He shrugged at Marty, giving him his best I-don't-care-about-that-crap impression. The expression that Marty shot back was all furrowed eyebrows and puckered mouth. It was fairly clear that he thought his best friend had lost his mind. Dave smiled and returned to the task he had been attending to before he had momentarily drifted off, penciling doodles of superheroes on his notebook.

Among the various doodles, the silhouette of a familiar form claimed a spot near the bottom of the notebook. Spiky hair shot off in one direction, partially covering one eye of a masked face. Tiny "M" hidden in a diamond-shaped frame on the chest of the costume. Dave wondered, as he had been wondering over the last several weeks, what had happened to his partner/enemy. Whatever you would call the brief relationship they had had. Was he still alive? Was he kept up somewhere in a hospital with a breathing mask strapped across his face? There was no denying that Dave felt a profound sense of guilt over the whole situation. _We just left him on that bench._ It was entirely possible that the cocky little bastard had died before the ambulance had even made it to the destination.

Hit Girl had made a comment, a few days afterward, that _that_ would be the better outcome for him anyway. She was still pissed about the whole situation, made even worse by the fact that Dave had tried so hard to keep him alive. Thank God that she hadn't been there when he had performed CPR on the dying villain. Or the other two times where he had locked lips with him... He shook his head quickly, running a hand through poofy hair. No need to focus on that again. Pondering the experience had only left him baffled. He returned his pencil to the crude sketch of Kick-Ass at the top right corner and darkened the edges of the drawing, wishing that the strokes of his writing utensil would hasten the time until the bell rang.

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"So what was the deal in there?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Dave shot a quick look over to Marty as he struggled to tip the array of textbooks from his arms into his backpack.

"...With the paper? You know, the one that's worth a huge percentage of your grade?" Marty still had that disbelieving look on his face. "I thought you said you were almost finished."

"Oh, yeah. I wasn't."

There was a slight pause. Then, "Dude, what's up with you lately? You're kinda going all alternate universe on us."

"Yeah, he's like a pod person or something." Todd appeared beside them in the hallway, poking at Dave suspiciously.

"I'm not a pod person," Dave argued, defending himself. "I'm the same guy you've always known. It's just..." Then followed the long pause as, for the one hundred-thousandth time, he considered coming clean. Keeping a secret's one thing, but this particular secret he had been dying to reveal ever since that fateful day he had first clicked "order" on the scuba suit. His eyes glazed over as he stared outward, vaguely aware of students making their way down the hall, strolling in slow motion. An awkward smile was gradually creeping onto his face. Yeah, maybe it would be ok if he told them...

A hand waved itself in front of his face for the second time that day. Marty's hand was pudgier and less claw-like than the hand belonging to his teacher, but it was more enthusiastic in its movements. "Do you think we should like, call the nurse, or something?"

Todd considered, and then promptly disregarded the question. "Naw. If he really is a pod person, going to the nurse would be pretty pointless."

"I never say he was a pod person. You did," Marty sighed.

"I'm just saying! Oh, I know...we could test him. Make him play sky land-9 in Mario 3, but tell him he has to do it with a super leaf instead of a P-Wing. If he's a pod person, he'd have no idea how fucked up that was."

"Dude, that doesn't even make sense. There's no reason to use a P-Wing in that level anyway. You can get by just fine with a super leaf."

Todd looked as if someone had just slapped him in the face. "You're telling me you'd rather have a normal, stupid leaf than a P-Wing? In that level? That's just..."

Dave woke up from his daze and quickly took hold of the situation. "Guys, hold off. Everything is...wait, super-leaf over P-Wing?" Todd made a small victorious whoop sound as his opinion was seconded.

Marty was less than amused. "Seriously. The P-Wing is just a crutch for guys that don't know how to play. If you have skill, you barely even need the normal tail." He took off his glasses and produced a small cloth from his pocket, rubbing off a smudge. "Maybe you two just need to practice more."

Ignoring the comment, Dave dove in before Todd had a chance to retaliate. This conversation could go on forever otherwise.. "Can you guys come over tonight? I wanted to talk to you about something."

Now the awkward silence was being emitted from the other two. "That doesn't sound ominous at all..." Todd muttered half-jokingly. Seeing Dave's face still holding the same stalwart expression, he caved. "Yeah, um..sure."

"Totally, man." Marty clapped his friend on the back, concern for Dave beginning to manifest itself. "Just tell us what time to be there."

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The moon had just begun to creep out of the sky, shyly venturing back into sight to accomplish its nightly duty. Its light caused the rooftops, wet from recent rain, to shimmer in a understatedly brilliant way. Chris stood on the corner, under a broken streetlight, and sighed. He had been watching the clinic for a good 20 minutes, scoping it out. Making sure he knew what he was getting himself into before he got himself into it.

The building itself was rather plain and unassuming. He himself had driven down this street many times before and had never even noticed its existence. Instead of large letters overhead stating the name, like any other self-respecting business, it only presented itself in small font on the front door - County Needle Exchange. He practically had to squint to even notice _that. _The only reason he had even found it this time was by plugging the address into his GPS.

It wasn't very crowded. About a half dozen cars were parked on the street directly in front of the tiny building. By what he could tell, it didn't even seem like there were very many workers inside. Granted, he could only get a glance inside whenever some stumbling druggie would open the door, seeing as how there was only one small window on the wrong side of his vantage point.

There was at least one security camera near the door, not to mention the burly guard leaning against the wall with arms crossed across wide chest. Chris had strategically chosen his darkened corner so as to avoid detection from either. If it had been possible to have actually have found a decent parking spot, he would have done his detective work from behind the safety of tinted windows and locked doors, but that just wasn't going to happen without driving the block repeatedly and drawing even more attention to himself. As it was, he had to make due with his corner instead.

"Hey man, got a smoke?" Chris jumped at the sound. Turning quickly, he was greeted by a bleach blonde man dressed in mismatched clothes that looked to have been purchased at a thrift store. The man appeared to be in his late 40's, but Chris had been around enough hardened drug addicts in his short life to know that he was probably closer to the 25-30 age range.

"Naw, sorry," he made a half-hearted attempt to pat the pockets in his jeans, knowing full well that he didn't have any cigarettes on him anyway. He couldn't stand the smoke; made him gag. Pot didn't count, of course. His hand grazed the pocket of his blazer jacket, the cold hard form of a gun contained within. He barely even noticed. 'Cause once you empty your weapon into an eleven year old girl and then turn around and maliciously gun down a perfect stranger in his own home, carrying a weapon starts to lose its novelty.

The blonde looked him over, giving him a smirk. Pulling his arms into himself, Chris pretended not to notice. Damn, he probably could have chosen a less conspicuous jacket than his $300 blazer. Made him look out of place in this ratty ghetto of a town. "Nice coat," the blonde creep declared.

"Thanks." He stated his reply in the most low key way possible, making a point not to look the thrift-store weirdo in the eye. _What if he tries to rob me? It's obvious I have money._ He silently cursed his earlier clothing decision as he considered his options. Obviously there was the gun, but firing it right in front of possible witnesses would simply be stupid. Just because he had grown comfortable carrying it around didn't mean he wasn't nervous about it being discovered. In a preemptive measure of escape, he calculated the distance from here to his car.

"Hey!" The man suddenly lurched forward and Chris felt his heart jump for a split second as he jerked away. Instead of pulling a knife in some sort of robbery attempt, the man only laughed. "Dude, you had a bee on your shoulder." His voice was slow but amused, the words drawn out. "You look like I was gonna punch you or something."

Chris cleared his throat awkwardly, mind racing for some explanation that didn't make him seem like a freak. The blonde simply nodded his head, as if he was aware of something beyond Chris' comprehension. "You've got it bad!" He patted the nicer-dressed boy on the back, thumping harder than the wide-eyed Chris would have liked. "You gotta get in there, asap. Get some needles before you explode." He pointed across the street at Chris' stake-out building.

Chris relaxed, realizing that the man thought that he was a drug user like himself, some kid wanting to swap dirty needles for clean ones so he could go home and fuck himself up. He would have been offended if he didn't already have so much on his mind. "What? Um, yeah."

Blondie had a stupid wide grin plastered to his dilapidated face. "I'm going over there right now, why don't you come with me?" And then, before waiting for a reply, his grubby hands were on Chris' $300 blazer. Before Chris could even open his mouth to spout out a "fuck you", he suddenly found himself being tugged across the street. The audacity! Red flooded Chris' vision, rage bubbling up from somewhere deep within. He thought of the gun in his pocket, and had even reached one hand toward it's fabric receptacle before realizing that they were being watched. The guard in front of the needle exchange had taken notice of the skirmish and was scrutinizing them intently. Well, fuck. His cover was good and blown now.

Scowling, he reached up and pulled the man's hands off of his sleeve. If he was going to do this, he wasn't going to be dragged like a fucking rag doll. _'Congratulations,_ _you're now on my kill list,' _Chris noted, glaring at the thrift store junkie. It took all of his willpower to contain his rage. "Hey, I can walk by myself." His words were like ice.

The blonde's eyes widened, and he held up two hands in surrender. "Sorry, man! I just thought..."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's just get in there or some shit." He shoved his hands in his pockets, frustration covering his face. The druggie was saying something, trying to make an apology...Chris didn't hear any of it. He was busy scoping out the new scene as quickly as possible, attempting to hatch out a new plan before everything fell apart completely. The guard was squinting at them, whether out of suspicion or because of a glare from a passing headlight, it was impossible to tell. Either way, he kept his same intimidating pose as the two of them neared the front of the building, arms still crossed.

They reached the door, and the man standing guard in front. He was easily 6 foot 4, and had to be around 250 pounds; pure muscle. It was the type of guy Chris would have been happy to have on his payroll. Not so much someone he wanted scrutinizing him. "Hey, man. How's it going?" Blondie casually addressed the guard. There was no response. The giant peered down at them, his face a wall, expressionless. Chris couldn't decide whether to correct his posture and attempt to come across as do-goody as possible, or slink down into the pavement like a submissive dog.

After what seemed like forever, the guard simply nodded, arms finally unfolding in order to push the door open. "Thanks, dude," Blondie was saying, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that the giant could have killed the both of them in one solid punch if he had felt like it. _Or maybe - _Chris thought - _I'm analyzing this too much. I'm just too used to the way that dad used to do things. _

They stepped into the room, lit up yellow with buzzing fluorescents. It looked like some kind of doctor's waiting room from hell. A number of chairs and couches lined the walls, not one of them matched the other. Sitting (or lying down as if taking a nap - as Chris was disgusted to see) on several of the seats were what his father had often referred to as the decrepit members of society. Worn out, several missing teeth, one missing an eye, these people looked like they had been ridden hard and put away wet.

"Welcome! Can I help you?" A cheery voice called out from the other side of the room. The friendliness seemed so out of place here. A good number of patients that attended this particular clinic likened her voice - her very optimistic being - as to a lighthouse in a dark storm. A person with whom they knew they could count on to brighten their otherwise gloomy existences. To Chris, the voice was just grating. Nails on a chalkboard. To him, it screamed of phoniness and counterfeit kindness.

He turned and was greeted by a smiling brunette seated behind the counter. The girl was unconsciously twirling a string of long hair between two fingers. Long hair that was instantly recognizable from a particular Myspace picture viewed only the day before.

Chris smirked. "Yeah, I think you can."

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_So I know not much is happening yet, but I have big plans for the next chapter.._


	4. Chapter 4

_Important note: for those of you who are unaware, roofies gives the user retroactive amnesia, which means it's hard or impossible to remember what happened during the time of influence, and sometimes right before. No, I'm not just spouting random facts. There's actually a reason I'm making sure everyone knows this :)_

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For the first time that night, Chris finally felt like his hard work was paying off. He flashed a lopsided grin in the direction of the smiling harpy behind the counter. Before he could react any further, he felt himself being pushed once again.

Whether it was because Blondie had no people skills whatsoever, or just because he wanted to socialize with the other druggie fuck-ups first, the older man was suddenly pushing Chris toward the white counter. "My little buddy here is in desperate need of your services." _Your services? God, it sounds like I'm here for something other than drug paraphernalia. _One arm, clad in tacky attire, patted Chris on the back repeatedly as he spoke. The gesture was tougher than it needed to be, causing Chris to wince at the forceful stimulation. "Take good care of him, ok?"

"Of course!" Katie beamed back, waiting until the man had stepped back into the extended clutches of the waiting room. Shifting her gaze to Chris, she made a face. Her voice dropping in volume, "Are you alright? He seemed very...overly friendly." Her lips contorted into something between an embarrassed scowl and an apologetic smile.

Chris stepped closer, glancing backward to make sure his annoying "friend" had indeed gotten the hell out of the way. When his head snapped back around to face Katie, he put on the most charming face he had in his arsenal. The face he normally reserved for the high profile men that used to meet with his dad. "Yeah, I'm cool. Nothing that talking to a nice girl like you can't fix." He laughed at his own stupid commentary, hoping that his idiotic comment would somehow inspire trust. And then she was smiling again, perfect white teeth flashing. This was going to be even easier than he thought.

Katie opened her (nauseatingly) bright eyes even more and giggled. "Oh good! I was hoping he wasn't, like, your friend that I had just insulted." She placed a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth as she laughed. Chris had to force himself to keep smiling; her flawlessness was really beginning to piss him off. His mind kept shooting off to some dark corner wherein she and Kick Ass fucked like animals at every chance they got. Imagining it made him feel ill. Made him want to tear off her goddamned slut-face right then and there. Only through years of training was he able to keep his expression calm.

"I just met him, actually. Across the street." His voice was distant; distracted. He pointed in the vague direction of the door.

If she noticed a change in him, she didn't show it. Instead, Katie snatched a clipboard from beside her on the counter and pulled it closer, manicured nails lightheartedly flipping through the edges of the papers clipped to the board as she talked. "So, you've never been here before? I mean, I've never seen you here."

He didn't entirely know what to say. "Yeah..no, it's my first time. I, uh...didn't really know what to do." She suddenly reached a hand across the desk and planted it on his arm. The action surprised him, threw him off. The feel of her skin on his own appalled him. It was one thing to have been repeatedly pushed and prodded by Blondie, but this was something else all together. _This is what he feels when she touches him. _He felt assaulted.

"It's ok. It's good you came here. We want you to be safe." Perfectly manicured nails returned to their position on the clipboard and pushed it in his direction. "There's just some paperwork you have to fill out first."

He frowned. "Yeah...about that. I just wanted to get some info first, you know? Talk to you a little bit." Biting his lip nervously, he hoped he didn't come across like some kind of creeper.

There was a slight pause, and then her eyes got all wide and happy again. Chris wondered how it was possible for someone to fake that much kindness. "Sure! What did you need to know?"

Now it was Chris' turn to pause. The plan had never been to actually _talk_ to Katie. Follow her home, maybe; but not this. He had no clue what to say. She took the silence as a signal of insecurity. "Don't worry about talking to me about your problem. We see a lot of people here. I know it must be really hard for you. Have you been using for awhile?"

"What? No! I mean...not that long." Startled once again, he absentmindedly put a hand to his face, slightly dismayed that he apparently passed for a drug addict loser. _Stop being such a little bitch, Chris, that's the whole point right now._

She lowered her voice, keeping it quiet enough so that the others out in the waiting room couldn't hear. "Heroin?"

"Uh...yeah." _Just go with it. _

"I thought so," she nodded. "We get a lot of different types in here. Of drug-users, I mean. I've gotten pretty good at guessing."

Chris suddenly felt any confidence he originally had begin to dissolve, as paranoia started to take over. So, apparently he looked like a smack addict? Great. He cleared his throat, an idea forming. It was a long shot, but... "I think I really just need someone to talk to more than anything. I don't have anyone who understands how hard this is." He kept his head down throughout his speech, giving his best sob-story performance. Staring down at the linoleum floor, he did his best imitation of a loser. "I mean...my dad just died a couple weeks ago. He was the only one I could turn to. And now that he's gone, I have nothing..." he sniffed, vestiges of real tears finding themselves into the corners of his eyes. That part didn't need to be faked.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry!" He didn't expect her to suddenly come rushing out from behind the desk, nor did he expect to suddenly find himself the recipient of a tight hug. All words gone from his head, he simply stood there and let her wrap her disgusting demonish arms around him, all senses on edge. Something in his mind was screaming to get her off; push her away quickly, but he allowed the invasion for the sake of the plan.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally unlocked her grasp. Recognizing that he wasn't hugging her back, Katie took a step away from him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come across as weird. I guess I'm just used to being here for everyone. I feel like a therapist sometimes."

What Chris wanted to do was punch her in that perfect face of hers. Tell her just how rude it was to randomly hug perfect strangers. Not everyone wanted to be grabbed and squeezed by a fucking whore. He wondered if Dave was aware how friendly his girlfriend acted around people she had never even met before. Pushing all emotions back down, he forced himself to extend an arm and put it on her demon shoulder. "Naw, I'm sorry. I'm a little mind-fucked right now. With my dad and the...um..."

"The heroin thing." She whispered the brief sentence, as if the waiting room of beat-down druggies actually cared.

"Yeah, that."

"Tell you what..." her demeanor springing back into its previous happy-go-lucky attitude, she reached across the desk and fished out a brochure from one of the several stacks residing there. The title proclaimed to help drug users "Take Charge, Take Care: 10 Tips for Safer Use". Grabbing a pen, she began to scribble on the bottom. When she turned back around, she held it out to him. "Take this, just in case. It has some really helpful advice. And if you need someone to talk to..."

Looking at the brochure - in large loopy cursive letters was the name Katie followed by a phone number. _Well, that works._

_.  
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The drive back home was filled to the brim with conflicted thoughts. The phone number had been a unexpected surprise. He had originally driven to the clinic with plans to follow Katie home, get an idea of what his next step would be. He had doubted he'd be able to kill her at home anyway. Parents can be cumbersome in that way. But a phone number provided a few more options. He could gain her trust...make her come to him. And fuck, she was way too trusting as it was. Someone needed to teach her a lesson, anyway. Don't trust strangers. Especially strangers that you meet in a drug clinic who may or may not harbor resentful and jealous feelings of you.

Thing was, he hadn't expected to cry. It had barely started before he had been able to quickly extinguish it, but the sad fact remained. _Sometimes, Chris, you're kind of a pussy._ Sure, his dad could be an asshole at times, but what parent wasn't? Truth be told, as much as his dad would get on him for wasting his time with comics, he was still the guy who gave him an extra grand if Chris complained about missing a few issues.

As he pulled the car onto the freeway, right hand absentmindedly shifting the car into gear, he once again lamented the fact that he couldn't even remember what had happened on the last night he had spent with his father. Maybe, if he had been able to recall his last moments with his dad, he could quell at least some of the anger that bubbled and boiled in his head. Channel that resentment into something more productive at least. Everything that happened that night was such a blur. All he could really remember was _those two_. They had come into his home like strangers in the night, no doubt intent on killing everyone in the process.

And they had. They had killed his dad. That much, he was sure. After he had been released from the hospital, he had come home to find his penthouse had been turned into a crime-scene. Even before the police had named any suspects, his mind had gone straight to the costumed vigilantes. The little purple swear-machine, and then...him. _Kick Ass._

The few memories he did have were an set of obscure smudges on his mind, vague hazes of a memory broken so many times that the pieces were impossible to put back together. Whatever had happened that night, it had eventually put him in the emergency room, his heartbeat and breathing apparently slowed to levels dangerous enough to have killed him.

But then, why...why could he also remember kissing the lips under that green costume? Why would he do that? It didn't make any sense. Sure, it wasn't like Chris hadn't thought of kissing the self described super hero before. He had wanted to do it dozens of times when the two of them had sat in the mist mobile, had imagined what it would feel like. But what would have caused him to have acted upon it that night of all nights? And furthermore, why had Kick Ass obliged? Was it possible that Kick Ass been the one who had initiated it in the first place?

The blaring sound of a honking horn tore Chris away from the mess of tangled thoughts. It shrieked at him from beside his car, angry that in his distraction, he had partially drifted across the lines into the next lane. He corrected his car, smoothing his hair back nervously. "Stupid fuck. Then don't drive in my fucking blind spot."

His thoughts disrupted by the prior intrusion of sound, the questions and accusations settled like dust. For the time being, at least. For as Chris concentrated on getting the car home in one piece, the vestiges of dust were already beginning to flutter upward, circling around and attempting to put themselves back together. The cloud had once again began to form. And it looked like revenge.

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_Ha ha, Katie is waaay over-the-top nice in this. Maybe a little too nice? Ah well, it's how she needed to be written.  
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	5. Chapter 5

_Maybe it's because of the half-girly setup of his bedroom, but I can really imagine Dave owning a sequined jacket. Why I turned Todd into an ADHD little freak, I don't know, but it kinda works. Ah, and usage of the word "whilst" next to the phrase "wacking it"? It's the little things in life that amuse me :) Warnings for overuse of _parentheses_ near the end._

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"So, dude. Why are we here?" Mouth half full of pizza, Todd spit little bits of crust and sauce onto the bedspread as he spoke.

"Hey! Watch where you're spitting! I really don't want, like..saliva and spit and stuff all over my bed," Dave exclaimed.

Marty gave his messy friend a look. "Yeah, that's kinda gross."

"Sorry." Grabbing a nearby piece of paper from off Dave's desk, Todd attempted to shovel the crumbs off the side. It wasn't working very well. Ignoring his fruitless efforts, Dave shifted his attention back to the point at hand. The reason he had invited the two of them there in the first place. _Am I really going to tell them? Is this, right here, the stupidest thing I've ever done? _

He opened his mouth wide. "I - uh.." He paused again, mouth still hanging open, dumb expression glued to his face. The other two stared at him, nothing to do except wait for him to continue.

"Is this about the paper?" Marty ventured. "I bet you could get an extension if you sucked up to Ms. Holloway."

"No, it's not that." Making a face, Dave paused for a second. "Although, I probably should work on that paper..." He shook his head. _Nevermind that now. _Taking a deep breath, he walked to the closet, fingers gripped around the handle. _It's now or never. _Without saying another word, he flung the closet door open and waited for the expected display of enthusiasm. There was only silence.

Finally Marty spoke. "You...need to clean out your closet?"

"Get rid of your weird-ass glitter coat?" Todd laughed.

"It's not glitter, it's sequined...that's not what I'm talking about, don't you guys see it?" Dave grabbed hold of the hanger containing the Kick Ass wet suit and pulled it out. He held it out for both of them to observe.

"Wow, you are really a fanboy sometimes," Todd chuckled. "I didn't know you were so into Kick Ass."

"Todd, I'm not just _into_ Kick Ass. It's a little more complicated than that." He stood there, one eyebrow raised, waiting for the circumstances to sink in.

"You're...in love with Kick Ass?" Clearly the circumstances had not sunken in to Todd's head. Confused didn't even cover the expression he wore on his face.

Marty, who had up until now remained silent throughout the end of the conversation, finally spoke. His words came out slowly. "You aren't telling us that _you _are Kick Ass, right? Cause that would be...really insane."

Dave cleared his throat. The secret was out now, whether or not it had been a good idea. "Remember when I was hospitalized because of that mugging? That wasn't the real reason I got so fucked up."

Todd's eyes widened to saucer-like proportions. "Oh my God."

"This whole time, you've been Kick Ass." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Marty seemed to come to terms quicker than had originally thought. "That actually explains some things."

Todd, on the other hand, had leapt across the bed and was reaching for the costume. "Lemme see!"

"Don't get pizza sauce on it." Dave handed the hanger containing the green suit over to his friend, who snatched it up with hands only marginally covered with tomato sauce and proceeded to admire it. Throwing a strange look in his direction, Dave wandered closer to his other friend. "Is it weird?"

Marty took off his glasses and proceeded to clean them on his shirt for the umpteenth time that day. "No, not weird. _Mostly_ not weird."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dave's jeans barely missed a glop of pizza sauce. He rubbed the bridge of his nose nervously. "So...was it stupid for me to have blown my cover?"

"No, not at all. I won't say anything, and you know Todd won't either." The two of them turned to look at the other boy currently holding the costume and practically dancing with glee. "Don't worry. If he tries to tell anyone, I'll kill him."

Dave laughed nervously at Marty's joke - _it better be a joke_ - and smiled. Everything was going to be ok.

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"Everything's going to be ok now," Chris reassured himself for the billionth time that night. The reality that he was finally going to see Kick Ass again was really beginning to hit him. His whole body tingled with anticipation. Stepping around the corner of the bathroom, towel clinging tightly around his waist, Chris stepped into the bedroom just as his phone finished vibrating. He ran a hand through soaking hair, too distracted to notice the resulting splashes of water that plummeted onto the carpet below. Grabbing the phone from its spot on the desk, a text message glowed up at him from the display. #back from shop#

The vague message was from Angelo, letting Chris know that he had managed to secure a few additional guns for his arsenal. At the time, the super villain wannabe had wanted as complete a collection as possible. Not that he ever really used any of the big guns anyway, but they were shiny and cool, and made him feel more bad-ass. But at some point between the time he had placed the order and now, something had changed. He was no longer as interested in owning giant cannon-for-guns. His .44 Desert Eagle was actually suiting him quite fine. It was beginning to feel like an extension of himself.

He texted a quick reply - #k# -, and set it back on the desk, thoughts quickly returning to their previous obsessions. Falling backward onto the bed, his face took on an embarrassed smile as he remembered that the gun was still in the bathroom, enclosed in a ziplock bag to keep out the condensation, sitting on the counter next to the shower. If someone had asked why it was there (for whatever random reason), he would have rationalized its presence by telling them "you can't be too careful." Which was true, of course, especially if one happened to be a killer themselves. But the real reason was much more awkward. The fact that its presence had served as a handy visual aid whilst wacking off to thoughts of his mortal enemy in compromising positions? Not something that you'd easily tell anyone and expect to be taken seriously ever again.

Anxious to hurry along the process of coming face-to-face once again with the object of his fixation, he pulled the phone back down from the desk once more and stared at it. _Should I dial Katie's number? _

_ -Of course not, dumbass. Too early.-_

Mental dialog arriving at the most logical solution, Chris scowled. It probably _was_ too early to call her, after all. Which was nothing short of infuriating. He wanted Kick Ass, and he wanted him _now._ But risking it now by taking the chance that he might scare the evil harpy girlfriend off before he had a chance to tear her apart? Not worth it. He'd have to wait, because doing otherwise was just too risky.

Still clad only in a white terrycloth towel, he retrieved a joint from inside a dresser drawer, lit up, and proceeded to spend the rest of the night staring ardently at Dave's Myspace profile picture.

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The next few days seemed to pass by fantastically quickly for Dave. Things were going by in a metaphorical blur, so to speak. All that apprehension he had been holding onto about telling Todd and Marty had mostly dispersed, leaving him feeling relieved with only a hint of his former trepidation. He still worried a little bit about Todd accidentally divulging _something. _So far, though, all was good.

Marty had been right about sucking up to Ms. Holloway. Or at least giving her an excuse she couldn't ignore. He had managed to snag an extension by telling her he was experiencing PTSD from his "mugging". All it had took was telling her he was having bed-wetting incidents (dishonesty_ gold_, his friends had insisted - no one would tell him no after hearing that), and he had scored an extra week to finish the paper.

Sure, Todd wouldn't leave him alone about introducing him to Hit Girl - once he had realized _that_ connection he wouldn't shut up about it - but it was only a minor inconvenience. Even letting him in on the fact that Hit Girl was, indeed, only 11 years old didn't really slow Todd's insistence. In a last ditch effort to shut his friend up, he finally just said he'd ask her the next time he saw her, not really planning on following through.

Other than that, things were awesome. Even things with Katie were going well, despite the fact that he barely had time to hang out with her, what with the paper and everything. He made a decision that once he was finished saving his grade from the edge of academic failure he would make it up to her. Take her out to that new skating rink she had been squealing about recently. Something different and special. She deserved it, especially for putting up with such an absentee boyfriend as-of-late.

There was only one thing that still bothered him, and that was the lingering threads of worry for Red Mist that still poked at the back of his mind. He knew that he shouldn't feel it, but what one _should _feel and what one _does _feel are two entirely different things. He considered calling the hospital, but wasn't sure if he should ask for Chris by name (this tidbit of information he had received from Hit Girl, who had realized the connection at the D'Amico estate), or just ask about a guy admitted a few weeks ago in a superhero costume. Deciding on the second option, he had dialed the hospital's number, holding his breath when the stern-voiced woman on the other end put him on hold. After several long minutes, the line went dead; no doubt the result of some disgruntled worker too busy (or lazy) to check. Dave had made it a point to call back at a different time, when someone else was likely to answer the phone instead.

With the exception of his concern for (_your enemy_ - Dave kept emphasizing to himself), overall, life seemed to be looking up. He was even considering pulling the Kick Ass costume out of retirement, but just for small non-dangerous jobs. Leave the dark stuff for Hit Girl to do. Katie would understand, wouldn't she? Kick Ass was a part of his life. She had to understand.

He took a deep breath, reflections of happy possibilities floating in his mind. Yep, things were going to finally turn around. From where he was standing, the future looked bright.


	6. Chapter 6

_Wow, I have no idea how this chapter got to be as long as it is. I promise that Things! and Stuff! happen, however. Plot progression! I know, right?_

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Three days. Three _long_ days. Why it had to be that particular number, Chris himself wasn't even sure. Probably could be chalked up to some mild undiagnosed OCD thing or something. But he had programmed it into his mind as a rule not to be broken. He didn't want to phone _her _any sooner and risk freaking her out. Collapsing that already rickety connection that the two of them had built back at the needle exchange. And that wouldn't get him any closer to Dave.

So he had waited.

And waited.

Three days didn't normally take this long to pass, did they? So when they finally did, it was with excited anticipation that Chris gripped the phone in one hand and prepared to dial the number. Dialing finger poised over lit-up keys, needle brochure nearby for number consultation, he was about to begin the process when the phone suddenly rung. The caller ID glowed with the letters of a familiar name. "Goddammit! Fucking Angelo!"

He answered, one-word response uttered into the receiver with a tone of pure fury. "NO." Click. Once again, he would have to deal with an awkward (albeit, brief) phone conversation, but that could wait. This was more important. He dialed the number from that swirly-inked note on the bottom of the brochure and waited for an answer.

The call went straight to voicemail without even ringing. "Hi!" A frightfully cheerful voice exclaimed at him from the depths of the phone. "You've reached Katie Deauxma! I'm sooo sorry I missed your call, but if you leave your message I'll get back to you! And if this is you Erica, remember to tell your mom we _are_ going to that concert next week! I'll see you there, bitch! Hahahaha..." The strange teenage laughter that followed threw Chris off for a second - _Who the hell leaves a message like that?_ - but his thoughts were interrupted by the quick voicemail tone.

"Uh-" Still a little off from the voicemail greeting, his thoughts raced. "Hey. It's Chris, from the..um..needle exchange..." _Had I ever even told her my name? Shit, this is going badly already. _"You gave me your phone number 'cause my dad died." _Wow, this was pathetic. _"I just wanted to call you 'cause...I needed someone to talk to. So, if you could call me back, that would be...good." He left his number, half-stumbling over the familiar digits being as he was already horrified at his crappy message. He pushed 'end' quickly, hitting it so hard that the number went black for a brief second. Leaning back against the chair, suddenly very afraid that his lead for finding Dave was as good as lost, he tried not to hyperventilate.

_No, it's ok. If nothing else, you can follow her home after work and torture her until she gives you Dave's address. That will work...it's pretty much foolproof. Unless she's so infatuated with him that she won't tell you... Oh God, what if that happens? What if she dies before she tells me? I'll never find him!"_

Reaching for his ever-present baggie of weed, he proceeded to roll a joint, tumultuous thoughts racing chaotically through his head. He had just managed to take his first hit, desperate to calm down, when the phone rang.

He grabbed it, "Hello?"

The vaguely familiar voice on the other end seemed unsure. "Hey, is this Chris?"

"Yeah, it's me. Is this Katie?"

"Yep. I just got your message. My phone got turned off for some reason. Sorry I missed your call."

"That's...cool." No idea what to say, he made due with just trying to keep the conversation going. Just enough to get her to trust him. Somehow.

"You sounded really off. Is that ok to say? I don't mean to criticize or anything."

"I...uh...was. I was just...really down, ya know? With my dad and everything." He paused, trying to figure out how to get her on his side as quickly as possible. "I'm not doing very well."

"I'm really sorry to hear that! Are you backsliding? With the heroin, I mean?"

"Yeah," he lied. "I can't stop doing it. I feel like if I don't have someone to talk to, I'm just gonna keep shooting up all night. I feel like I'm going to kill myself if I don't stop now, but I can't."

There was a long pause, wherein Chris wondered if she was even still on the line. _Shit, did I take it too far? _Apparently not, as her voice suddenly sounded through the earpiece, something resembling concern seeping through. "Ok, I think we should call someone. Why don't you tell me where you live? I can send someone."

"No. I don't want to be carted away to some crazy house somewhere..."

"They'll probably take you to a hospital, or detox center."

"No, I can't do that. It would kill me. I can't give up the heroin. I, uh..love it so much." Making an I-have-no-idea-what-to-say expression at the phone, he decided that - fuck it - now was the time to throw in The Question. "Is there any way I can meet you somewhere? You know, to talk? I just don't think I can make it through the night."

Another long pause. Then, like a miracle shining through the heavens, "Maybe we can set something up. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Tell you what, why don't you meet me somewhere in public, and we can talk?"

"Yeah, that sounds awesome." The words spilled out of his mouth, thoughts already forming together into an idea. This was going to work. "You know the bowling alley on 48th? How about there?"

"Yeah, I know where you're talking about. Ok. How about eight-ish?"

Chris looked at his watch. It was 4:37. Should be enough time to get everything together... "Eight is great." The unintentional rhyme would have caused him to grit his teeth under normal circumstances, but he barely even noticed his choice of words. Thoughts of Dave were spiraling through his head. _I've almost got you. _He relayed his thank you's and goodbye's to the girl on the other end without even a thought of her. She was a means to an end and nothing more. He hung up.

The second call was to Angelo, informing him that he needed some; ahem; "work" done at the bowling alley. There were things that he needed to be transported there, people to be placed there. After all, his dad had owned the place for several years to use as one of their covers, so technically it was his to do with what he wanted anyway. During the conversation, his lackey informed him that someone had been spotted back at the old penthouse several times. Nothing clear had been caught on video, but the person looked quite short. Did that mean anything?

"Maybe. I'll take care of that later," Chris had informed the older man before hanging up. He didn't even want to think about _her _right now. It had to be _her, _who else could it be? But he hadn't even been back to his former apartment for weeks. No one except a select few even knew where he was staying now. He was safe. _Don't worry about the kid now, you have more important shit to do right now._ Important shit like fucking up that little needle exchange whore. And then bringing Kick-Ass out of hiding. He put it out of his head.

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When she locked the front door, several colorful key chains clinking against each other in the process, her thoughts were primarily on Dave. He had sounded so upset when she had postponed their date an hour and a half.

"But we'll miss the movie!" he had exclaimed.

"So we'll catch a later show. I promise we won't miss it tonight! I just have to do this one thing."

His voice had been full of worry when he had spoken next. "I know, I just feel really uncomfortable with this whole thing. Hell, Katie, he could be a murderer or something and you'd never know!"

"David Lizewski. You know that's ridiculous. He's not a murderer, he's like the same age as you and I."

"That doesn't mean..."

She interrupted him. "You've never met him. Believe me, he's completely harmless. And we're meeting at the bowling place anyway, so there'll be people all around. What's he going to do there?"

"I just think," Dave had faltered, voice slowing. "After the whole Rasul thing, that you should know that some of these people are dangerous."

"I know. But that was a completely different situation. I'm not planning on dating him -"

"Well, I would hope not! Seeing as you have a boyfriend!" The irritation on the other end of the phone was wildly apparent.

She sighed. "Listen, Dave. I know that. I'm just gonna talk to him. In a public place. With people. And I'm going to get him to check himself into rehab and that will be it. Ok? And then we'll go to the movies. Try to be a little sympathetic. He just lost his dad. He's on, like, a downward spiral and stuff."

It was Dave's turn to sigh. He still didn't like the idea of his girlfriend going off somewhere to talk to some junkie, but he could tell there wasn't much he could do at this point. Her mind was clearly made up. "Alright, babe. Just be really, really careful, ok? And call me right afterward."

"I will. Stop worrying."

They had ended their conversation with their goodbyes, Katie determined to tell Dave afterward how much he hadn't needed to worry. She had, however, grabbed the can of mace out of her closet and stuffed it in her purse. Just in case. Dave, on the other hand, immediately sent his computer on a search through Google maps to find the address of the bowling alley. He scribbled the address and a short series of directions on a scrap of notebook paper. Just in case.

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The stage had been set. The bowling alley, normally staffed by five workers on a Thursday night, had its numbers whittled down to one man. The man behind the counter, a tough-looking thug nicknamed Grunt, wore a nametag proclaiming his name to be "John". The colorful "how may I help you?" phrase which flashed at the top of the nametag looked to be in direct contradiction to the irate expression on his face. His original plan for the evening had been to spend several hours (and a few hundred dollar bills) at the local strip club. Angelo's call, telling him to be at the bowling alley instead, had completely ruined his night, and therefore his mood. He sat behind the desk, dumb face projecting aggravation.

In further preparation for Chris' plan, the back room was stocked with an assortment of interesting weapons. Two more men, wearing electrician uniforms, hovered near the door, making sure that none of the members of the sparse crowd wandered too close.

Even the size of the crowd, consisting of only half a dozen people, had been tailored to match Chris' expectations. Enough people to make her feel like she was safe, but not enough that she actually was. The bowlers themselves had no idea that they were involved in any kind of scheme. They were only the ones unlucky enough to get to the establishment during the small window of time where the sign on the door declared the bowling alley to be open. Once the desired number of people had entered, Grunt had locked the door and moved the sign to 'closed'. Everything was ready. All they needed now was the girl.

So when she pulled up, all dolled up for her date with Dave after the one-woman intervention she had planned, she didn't even think anything strange. Why would she? One thing mobsters were good at, or at least D'Amico mobsters, was being able to hide in plain sight.

She stepped in the door, recently unlocked for her arrival, as a quiet "ding" announced her appearance. Hesitating for a second, she looked around the poorly lit room, her gaze finally coming to rest upon a familiar form sitting in the corner. Chris, dressed in that same blazer she had seen him in the other day, looked up and smirked at her. He gestured for her to join him, holding a drink in one hand. She gave him her best 'I'm here for you' smile, she walked over.

"How are you doing?" she asked, pulling her purse on her lap as she sat down in the tiny booth. She studied his face, there was something going on behind that lopsided grin that he so easily flashed in her direction.

His eyebrows narrowed, seeming to study her. "A lot better, now that you're here." He stopped, distracted fingers making circles across the top of the fogged glass of soda.

"That's...good. I want to help you." Katie felt nervousness seeping into her very being, but was unable to pinpoint exactly why. Something about the way he was sitting, like he was going to jump up at any moment. _And do what? We're in a bowling alley. There are...ok, not many people, but some people here. I'm totally fine. _She tried to push her uneasiness into the back of her mind. _Dave just made you paranoid. You're gonna laugh about how stupid you were tonight! _"So, are you...high right now?"

He seemed confused for a second, before his lips pulled up into another smirk. "Uh, I guess you could say that."

It was strange. Despite the weird vibe she was getting, he didn't seem high. At least not 'shooting up all day, close to killing himself' type of high. Besides the pallid skin and frail build often seen with heroin addicts, he seemed to be functioning a lot better than most of the patients that frequented the needle exchange. "I want to get you the help you need." She spoke slowly again, completely unsure of the situation.

"Yeah?" He was looking her right in the eyes now, almost daring her to talk again. And then she noticed it.

"Your pupils..." she suddenly said.

"What?"

"They're big. I just mention it because normally the heroin patients that come into the clinic...the ones that are stoned, that is...have tiny ones. Like pinpricks." Her voice fell off after the last two words, becoming almost a whisper.

He was still smiling, it hadn't left his face the entire time. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Not seeming concerned with her accusation, he merely shrugged. "Let's just say I'm mostly high with anticipation."

"Huh?" Before she had time to question him any further, he had flagged down the one member of staff that seemed to be working that night. The fat, ornery looking man waddled over like a Bulldog. Chris continued to run his fingers across the rim of his glass as he spoke calmly to the man. "I think it's time to cancel one of our reservations."

Now it was the Bulldog's turn to look confused. "I have no idea what that even means."

"You know, cancel the...goddammit, fat-ass. Do the...thing." He was gesturing to something outside of Katie's vantage point.

"You mean this?" Katie gasped when the portly man pulled a gun from a back pocket.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, her voice rising.

There was a loud thump as Chris suddenly pounded the soda glass onto the tabletop. His gaze was still searing into her own, intensely "Don't scream. Unless you want to get shot."

She nodded, panic rising. _Dave was right. _

"But then," the fat man asked, a puzzled expression outfitting itself across his wide face. "So I am shooting her, or I'm not shooting her?"

"Shoot her if she screams. Otherwise, don't. Didn't you get the plan?" Chris looked aggravated.

"Yeah, but I don't understand the whole 'cancelling the reservation thing'."

"That was just a figure of speech! What the...never mind. Just do everything you were originally told." The smaller boy glared at the towering man.

As the two talked, Katie took the opportunity to reach toward her purse. Mace was no match against a gun, but maybe if she surprised them... Before she had time to get her hand into the contents, however, Chris was looking at her again. She dropped her hand. "You're gonna come into the back room with me, and you're not gonna make a scene, ok?" _Who is this boy?_ His demeanor was completely different than the awkward kid who had come puttering into the needle exchange, crying about his dad. It was almost as though he were a completely different person, channeling some maniac. _Why didn't I listen to Dave? _

"Ok?" He had slammed the glass down again, interrupting her panicked thoughts. A thin crack now ran from the bottom of the glass, zigzagging slightly until reaching close to the rim. Why she noticed that, of all things, she had no idea. She nodded again, shifting her gaze downward. She felt hot tears running down her cheeks.

"Good. So let's go." He wasn't looking at her anymore. She stood up, grabbing her purse, and followed him across the room to a door. She could hear heavy footfalls from the fat man behind her, the gun surely still in his grip, although undoubtedly hidden. None of the bowlers noticed their three-person parade across the back of the room. Everyone caught up in their games. In their blissful ignorance.

For a second, when she saw the door Chris was heading towards, her hopes rose. Two electricians stood nearby. If there was only a way to let them know of her plight... But any anticipations of rescue were dashed when one of the pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open as if they had been expecting this the whole time. Before she had even arrived. _But how? Why?_

At the last second, right before she crossed the barrier into the room, she felt herself pushed. She tumbled into the floor, her purse flying in the process, its contents spilling across the linoleum. "Really? Are you trying to attract attention to us?" Chris was fuming at the fat man in the doorway. "You can go now. Lock the door when you're out there."

If the brute made any kind of response, Katie didn't hear it. She pulled herself up off the floor as she heard the door click behind her. She looked around frantically for her mace.

"Don't worry about trying to overpower me, I have _this_." She looked up to see Chris pulling his own gun from an inside pocket in the blazer. He pointed it in her direction. "And, I have _those,_ too." His other arm gestured behind him, where she suddenly became aware that a wide variety of other weapons were currently sitting. Guns, knives..._what the hell?_

"What did I ever do to you?" she spat, anger inexplicably beginning to replace the fear.

He stared at her for a second before responding. He kept starting to say things and then stopping before any words were actually able to spill out. Finally, he sighed. "Your connection with Kick-Ass."

And then everything made a little more sense. This was some kind of hero-villain revenge thing. And she was the victim in this particular comic strip. "I was going to _help _you!"

"I never needed help." The response was short and detached. When he looked at her again, he looked almost lost. "I only needed _him_."


	7. Chapter 7

He had never actually pistol-whipped anyone before. Fired bullets into soft, blubbery skin; that he had done. Then stood awkwardly, watching as the red liquid came rushing out like Mt. St. Helen's on the Discovery Channel. He had done that too. But despite the fact that his kill sheet was beginning to slowly build up, it had always been from a safe distance away. Actually using force against someone sitting only inches away; that was a new one. Not that she was dead, of course. Her unconscious body lay prone against the floor, blood seeping out of her forehead, but she was far from dead.

His wrist was unexpectedly throbbing now. Apparently there was a right and a wrong way to hold your weapon as you propelled it into someone's skull. He rubbed the aching muscles, silently, and considered the fact that his violence had taken on a new outlet.

Part of him was sickened, having to get close enough to submit his clothing to tiny drops of someone else's blood. The other part was fascinated. Actually feeling the crack rattle through the weapon in your hand as it makes contact with skin and bone. That was power. He found himself wishing Dave was there.

Grabbing her by one arm, he hauled her to a chair which sat in a corner of the room, her limp body moving easily across the slippery floor. Lifting her into the chair was a little harder, but mostly because her head kept bopping forward and he didn't want to get any added blood on his shirt. Affixing her to the chair with the rope left for him in Angelo's previous visit, his last step was to gag her with several handkerchiefs. He tied them tightly behind her head. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have found the phrase 'like father, like son' oddly appropriate.

Through the entire ordeal, Katie awakened only once, to the blurry vision of Chris' form as he was walking away. It was the last time she would see him as Chris.

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When she came to again, the boy Katie knew as Chris was gone. In his place, he stood dressed in the clothes in which he felt more himself. The familiar red and black costume gave him the added confidence and self-assurance that he needed. If he was going to do this, he was going to do this as a fucking super-villain.

Unable to say anything, she only glared at him from behind a newly forming black eye.

"Don't take this too personally. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And by wrong place, I mean next to _him_." Chris considered his sentence, and decided to retract some of it. "Although you can take it a little personally. I'm finding it really hard to be unbiased to someone who, I'm pretty sure, has been fucking him for the last several months." Without warning, he suddenly kicked a wheeled chair into the brick wall in front of him. With a crash, it went flying and came to rest on its side several feet away. Katie remained silent, watching him without moving. He tried to regain his composure, but was finding it hard.

Prowling back and forth against the wall, he wrung his hands together in a way which looked both chillingly psychotic as well as slightly humorous in its stereotypical-ness. Well, humorous if you weren't the one tied to a chair, that is. "But that's ok. It's cool. It's still cool," Chris mumbled under his breath. His repetitive path suddenly took a new turn as he wandered closer to the pile of ominous objects heaped in the dark corner of the room and grabbed something from underneath a dusty blanket. Impossible, from Katie's vantage point, to tell what it was. Returning to the chair, one of the florescent lights hanging above caught a glint in the object he was holding and the obscured item shimmered in his hands. Caught by the light, the twisted, sadistic blade came into full view. He saw her eyes go wide and he smiled.

"Now, I think we're ready." He shifted the blade back and forth for a couple seconds, experimenting with how the weight felt in his hand, before bringing it close to her face. Right next to her left eye. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Both eyes stared upward at her captor, still so nauseatingly bright. He thought of her with Dave again, and the jealous side of him wanted to cut them out, but pesky vestiges of fear kept holding him back.

Katie, starting to sense an opening in his hesitation, tried to say something. Her voice caught itself up in the fabric of the handkerchiefs. She tried again, stillborn words coming out in only mumbles. To Chris, the sound didn't resonate like someone pleading for their life or wailing pathetically in fear, but like someone trying to relay a message. His nerves still high, part of him welcomed this distraction to hold off on the whole torture thing for a couple minutes. He gave her his best 'I'm a bad-ass voice' to camouflage the fact that he was momentarily relieved. "Just remember," he began, his ever-present lisp getting in the way of any attempted bad-assedness, "I have this if you scream." Chris gestured to the knife and she nodded. He undid the bindings from her mouth, cautiously, as if expecting her to start crying out bloody murder.

Fabric removed, she wet her lips cautiously, preparing to talk but unsure if what she wanted to say was wise. "Spit it out!" he commanded.

The air of confidence he had been working so hard to present began to come unraveled as soon as the next three words spilled out of her mouth."You like him."

Shocked, Chris replied quickly. "What? No, I don't!" Which might have been more convincing had he not stumbled over his response. All these months of keeping this fucking crush, -this obsession, whatever the hell it was - with Dave a secret, and some random girl figures it out by their second encounter?

There was some weird look in Katie's eye like she knew a way to get herself out of this mess safely. Something that suggested she was thinking '_Maybe, if I can reason with him' or 'Maybe, I can get him to relate to me' or some such escape plan a person might use in a Disney movie. _Treading down a path that would lead to either salvation or complete destruction. In Katie's head, she had always played the heroin in those movies. It was worth a try.

"It's ok if you do. There's nothing wrong with that." She nodded her head encouragingly, hoping to get the boy currently standing stock-still to open up. He was looking at her with a completely unreadable expression, black-rimmed eyes under the mask he was wearing indecipherable. "I'm a really good listener if you want to talk!"

A mildly amused grin spread over Chris' mouth, his eyes still fixed in their blank state. "Nothing wrong with that..." he mumbled under his breath.

"You're obviously feeling really confused and scared about this but it's ok! I can help you! Just let me go!" she pleaded.

"Let you go?" Chris' words came slithering out; shaded with a certain hue of ill-omened callousness; the hatred in his voice seeming to change the very pressure in the air. "So you can, what? Go running back to your boyfriend" - (_his voice choking on the word_) - "and have him find me and murder me? I'm sure you'd love that."

"No," she squeaked. "I would never..._he _would never..."

"He'd never, what? Kill someone? Wanna bet?"

If Katie noticed the last line, she didn't have time to think about it. Her scream, piercing through the stale air, was her only response, and it had nothing to do with Chris' small talk. The serrated knife had found it's place into her leg, above her knee. For a split second, Chris had a _what-have-I-done_ moment. Some reflexive thought-response instilled there from private school or television or any other information-distributor of right vs. wrong. Before he could ponder upon the ethics of stabbing someone, however, he once again remembered her being with Dave. And then practicality kicked in and he remembered that they were still in a public bowling alley.

"Shit!" Chris cried out, throwing his hands across her mouth. "Shut the fuck up! Someone's gonna hear us!" Her screaming stifled, she let out a surrendering cry and stopped.

The door slowly opened and folds of fat gripped the face of the man who peered inside. Grunt looked alarmed, or annoyed...it was impossible to tell. "Everything ok in here?" He didn't even wince at the sight of Katie's bleeding knee, or the knife protruding out of her body. Nothing out of the ordinary in the day of the life of a mobster.

"Yeah, it's fine." Chris didn't even turn his head to look at him. The costumed villain was breathing hard, anxiety and adrenaline fusing together.

"Are you sure? I heard a scream. Do you want me to put the gag back on her?" He looked at the handkerchiefs lying on the floor next to Katie's chair.

"No. I've got it."

"I think a couple of people heard her out here. They're wondering what's happening."

Chris still wasn't moving. He thought of right vs. wrong, and then thought about how it was all bullshit, anyway. Fuck, his entire upbringing completely contradicted the morality concept of right vs. wrong. His dad alone had killed enough people to desensitize him to the whole concept. His voice took on an unwavering, unemotional tone. "Then get rid of them."

"You want me to shoot all of them?"

"Whatever the fuck you want. I have more important things to do."

"Okie-dokie," Grunt replied, closing the door behind him. Katie started to cry, her overdue tears finally escaping.

Chris peered at her, almost confused. "_Now _you cry?" He pulled his hands away from her mouth, no longer worried about the general public in the bowling alley.

"All those people," she sobbed. "They're going to die because of me!"

Chris was taken aback for a second, wondering why she would care. Was it possible that all that kindness she had shown back at the needle exchange was genuine? For a split second, he suddenly felt bad.

_ Really bad._

Guilty, even.

He pushed those emotions aside as fast as he could. "Maybe you shouldn't have gotten involved with a superhero. That never ends well."

"He's just a normal guy to me," she wept.

Anger began to whisk back up, it's intensity growing even quicker than before. The guilt no longer anywhere to be seen, Chris grabbed the knife and yanked it out. Katie's resounding cry no longer had any meaning for him. "Normal! How could you call him that? He's...a lot of things, but normal isn't one of them. Fucking bitch. You don't deserve him."

"What? And you do?" Somewhere, Katie had suddenly pulled it together enough to throw this accusation back at her captor.

He stared at her a second before answering. "Maybe not, but at least I know how to handle him."

"What does that even mean?" she spat.

Her question went unanswered. Chris wasn't moving, his head turned toward the door, listening. "Why is it so quiet out there?"

Katie sniffled. "Are you planning on killing him?"

He turned back to face her, boots making a squeaking sound against the floor. In his hand, he was still gripping the knife. The stream of red blood dripping down the blade accented the crazed expression in his eyes. "It's complicated. But I will say this...I can't stop thinking about how much I want to ram my meat cleaver through his body, over and over again."

Katie gasped, and for a split second Chris assumed the action was in response to his words. That was, at least, until he realized her eyes were fixed on something behind him. Turning around, he gulped when he caught sight of the small intruder. Clad in her familiar purple wig and attire, the eleven year old was grinning.

"Meat cleaver? Wow, dude. That actually sounded really gay."


	8. Chapter 8

_Sorry for the wait, guys. For a number of recent reasons, my muse was pulled out of me, beaten up, and left for dead. But I've got it back, I hope. Here's hoping this chapter doesn't disappoint. _

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"Aw, shit." Chris didn't have time to feel fear. Didn't have time to feel much of anything, including the tiny dagger that Hit Girl hurtled through the air and into his shoulder. Hit Girl was already hurling herself acrobatically towards him like some kind of fucked-up, psychotic gymnast. The best he could do was pull his own weapon up against Katie's throat in warning. "I'll kill her!" he threatened, notes of pain finally threaded through his voice now that he was aware of the small blade embedded in muscle.

The whirl of purple came to rest several feet away from him, landing perfectly in such a way that if judges had been present, they would have undoubtedly lifted perfect 10's above their heads. She considered the situation, scowling. Her aim had originally been for his neck, but in the last second, she had realized that she really, really wanted to find out what the fuck had happened several weeks ago back at her safehouse. She had asked Dave about it, but had always felt that his explanation had been lacking a certain attention to detail. He had skimmed over the whole ordeal, and while she would never even think about probing him for the information, _this_ asshole was another story. She hadn't, however, planned on him using Katie as a hostage.

"Godammit, ow!" Chris reached up and pulled the blade out of his shoulder. It clinked against the floor when he dropped it. Luckily for him, the length of the blade was short, designed more for slicing through arteries that lay close to the skin rather than penetrating very deep. That, combined with the fact that the leather had taken the majority of the hit. Not that it didn't still hurt like a bitch, though.

"Let her go!" Hit Girl demanded, her eyes narrowing behind her mask. "Unless you want to know what it feels like to be a human shish kabob. I have a lot more of those stilettos."

"Yeah, really? I don't think so, 'cause I'll cut her throat the second I see you move. You really want to be responsible for killing Kick Ass' girlfriend?" His voice hitched again at the word 'girlfriend'.

Hit Girl's unmoving form stayed stock still, her eyes the only part that moved, shifting back and forth from between the teenage delinquent and the frightened girl still tied to a chair. Red Mist's hand was shaking the tiniest bit as he held his weapon against her skin, but she was willing to bet it wasn't because he didn't want to kill her. There was some kind of demented expression on his face...something in his eyes...she didn't know entirely what it was, but it made her feel cautious. Her mind raced, trying to decide on the best plan of action. Inwardly, she cursed herself. She should always be at least three steps ahead. As it was, she had gotten herself caught in a showdown, waiting to see who could draw their gun the fastest. Daddy would have been disappointed.

"Are they all dead?" Chris nodded in the direction of the door, which had closed itself after Hit Girl had snuck into the room.

"Your guys are," she stated simply, allowing a hint of smugness into her voice.

"Hmph," was Chris' reply; devoid of any sign of empathy for his fallen cronies. "And Kick Ass?"

"What about him?" Her voice just as indifferent, the young girl stood her ground, staring him down from across the room. She may not be a step ahead _yet,_but she knew how to play the game.

Aggravation already beginning to get the better of him once again, the masked villain responded with clenched teeth. "Is he here?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What kind of fucking answer is that?"

Hit Girl shrugged, smiling. One word. One tiny word was all it had taken to chip away at the appearance of arrogance that Chris was trying so hard to convey. He was already losing his cool. "If you don't bring him to me right now, I'm gonna murder this bitch!" The heightened pitch in his voice told Hit Girl two things. First, that he was getting desperate. Second, (and most importantly) that meant that she had the upper hand. _As__ long __as __he__ doesn't __completely __lose__ it__ and__ just __kill __Katie __for__ the__ fuck __of__ it._

"No. I don't think I'm gonna do that." Her voice was cold, to the point. Chris started to speak again but she interrupted him before he got the chance. "But you kill her and I spill your guts out all over this room. You won't even get a chance to see Kick Ass again. So go ahead. See where your retarded decision gets you." Behind Red Mist, Katie made a stunned choking sound.

"You're bluffing. You wouldn't chance her getting hurt."

"Wanna bet? I'm itching for a reason to kill you in an exceedingly messy way."

_'Fuck!'_ Feelings of desperation began to rapidly flood in the head of the costumed boy. He had worked so hard to get to this point, to get to Kick Ass... If he lost this now...

Hit Girl could see the anxiety building in her opponent. What had begun as only a few small tells were quickly cultivating into a slideshow of panic. He was starting to crack. The blade he held against Katie's neck began to push itself tighter against her, inadvertently. Katie made a sound, something in between a squeal and a cry.

"So you're a masochist, then?" Hit Girl scowled. "Alright, if that's the way you want to play it." She reached into her belt and began to slowly pull out something very sharp and very painful-looking.

He stared at her for a moment, strange expression still intact, until he realized his unconscious hand movement. Releasing the knife's pressure, Katie breathed a sigh of relief. From where Hit Girl was standing, it was hard to tell if the blood streak across Katie's neck was from a new cut or left over from the smear on the knife itself. Most likely the latter, as Katie seemed more afraid than anything. Gradually slipping her own blade back into her belt, Hit Girl shifted her position slightly, rocking back on her heels just an ounce, and tried to judge the amount of time it would take her to get to the two of them. It was still risky. And as much as she wanted to rip that motherfucker apart, she wouldn't do it at the expense of Dave's girlfriend.

"I wanna make a deal." The way the words came out of his mouth, all matter-of-fact as if he was making casual conversation, surprised the other two. The trepidation was still there, vaguely attached to each word like a lingering shadow, but there was a certain detached quality to it. As if his brain was wrenching the emotion away from the statement and leaving only the skeleton of the sentence intact.

"Yeah, we already went over that part, dipshit. No deals." Hit Girl spoke through clenched teeth, trying to reign in the anger she was feeling. _Who __the __fuck __does __he __think__ he__ is?_

"I'll give her to you," he gestured toward Katie, "_and_ I'll throw in my entire contact list for you to peruse and kill whoever you want...names, addresses...the whole fucking works, if you let me go. And bring me Kick Ass."

"No!" Katie exclaimed suddenly. Chris kicked the leg of the chair underneath her, rattling the cheap piece of furniture.

Hit Girl scoffed. "We're already done _that_ too. And it turns out you're a lying piece of shit who doesn't deliver on his promises."

"Huh?" Chris was genuinely confused.

"You don't remember? Got a lot of holes in your head, don't you?" She was just about to make a comment about punching more holes into his body when a blaring voice cut through the air over megaphone.

"This is the police. We have the building surrounded. Come out with your hands up!" There was a brief pause and then some sort of momentary alarm before it, too, shut off.

"What the fuck?" Chris shouted, stamping his foot on the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "How do they even know we're here?" For the first time since the ordeal had started, Katie felt a real sense of hope.

There was a strange look in Hit Girl's eyes. She took a minute before speaking. "The hostages in the building. One of them must have called the cops. You won't be able to hold out like this forever, you know. They probably have snipers..."

"Oh, shit.."

"I suggest," Hit Girl continued, her voice low, "you drop the knife before you get shot in the head. They probably have you in the crosshairs right now."

Chris narrowed his eyes, not feeling entirely comfortable with the idea of being unarmed in the same room as that sadistic brat. "What about you? You have a whole fucking arsenal on you."

"You're the one holding a knife up to a girl's throat. A girl who happens to be _tied __to __a__ chair_." Heavy emphasis put on the last few words, Hit Girl finished up with a brief, "just in case your little hostage situation wasn't obvious enough."

"Your sarcasm isn't helping," he panted, doing his best to glance at all the surrounding windows around him without completely dropping his gaze from the eleven year old.

A smirk traced itself across Hit Girl's face and she dropped her head slightly, purple wig fibers cascading around her features and casting a dark silhouette over her expression. She kept her stance and simply waited. A cobra watching its prey as it worked itself into a frenzy. From here on out, it was just a matter of holding out until the perfect chance to strike.

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To Red Mist, the next few seconds passed by like molasses leisurely oozing out of a bottle. Which is to say, it couldn't have been any more excruciatingly anxiety-provoking. Or so he thought. All options seeming pointlessly futile, the increasingly distressed villain was just about to run some new and improved plea bargain past Hit Girl in return for his safety when a familiar voice rang out from beyond the walls of the bowling alley.

There was no mistaking Dave's dorky, self-righteous proclamations coming from outside. Chris felt his heart abruptly light up like someone had flipped on a fucking 60-watt in his chest. Desire to injure and harm aside, he suddenly really, _really_ missed spending nights out fighting crime with Kick Ass.

And then things went horribly wrong.

Dave's (mostly) indistinguishable statements were cut off by that single blaring voice over the bullhorn. "Sir, if you enter the building you will be shot. Repeat..you _will_ be shot."

More barely audible arguments from Kick Ass insisting he was going to enter the building. In his mind's eye, Red Mist could just see his former cohort holding gloved hands in the air as he backed closer and closer to the entrance. Always disregarding his own safety in favor of doing the right thing. That stupid idiot was going to get himself killed! As if on cue, two shots suddenly rang out through cold New York air. Two shots that resonated just as loudly through Red Mist's head as if he had been standing outside.

Without even realizing it, the knife Chris had been holding for the last fifteen minutes dropped to the floor, all intentions to use it completely forgotten. And then he was running. Sprinting for the closed door that led back to the main lobby of the bowling alley and closer to the ex-partner that he only hoped wasn't lying in a pool of his own blood. It only barely registered that a dash of purple darted out the door with him, her own mission also temporarily forgotten in the mad rush to reach Dave.

Out in the lobby now, tunnel vision took hold as the two raced past dead mobsters sprawled out in greased-up bowling lanes. Chris didn't even see them. Too distracted by the horrible images he gruesomely anticipated seeing once they made it outside. As his breath hitched in fear, legs carrying him forward without thought, he prayed to whatever god was stupid enough to grant him the wish that Dave be ok.

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_For what it's worth, this chappie has been worked and re-worked a thousand times. It's really hard to walk the fine line between keeping Chris somewhat sympathetic while still making him kinda psychotic at the same time. Katie was originally much more fucked up, but plot progression wouldn't allow it to stay that way. I hope this works the way it's written now._


	9. Chapter 9

_Ok. So this was supposed to be the last chapter, but this thing has a life of it's own and refused to end quite yet. One more chapter to go after this one (probably). _

_Tiny slash warning (mostly one-sided) for this chapter because, hey...I can't NOT write slash. Still trying to keep it as in character as possible though, so hopefully I haven't strayed too much. To make up for all my holding back though, I think I'm gonna have to write an unrelated PWP after Addiction is finished.._

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It was kind of like a movie. At least that's how Dave's thoughts filtered the subsequent next few seconds as they happened. The door to the bowling alley swung open dramatically in front of him as two figures leapt out, practically landing on top of him in the process. He had positioned himself on the pavement almost directly in front of the entrance, body flat against the ground to hide two bullet wounds that simply did not exist.

He was aware that without blood, it wouldn't look real for very long. To Hit Girl, it shouldn't fool her for any more than a nanosecond, but that was the point. Or as much of a point as he had time to concoct on-the-spot with Marty. As long as it got Red Mist out of the building and away from Katie. _Katie. Was she ok? _No time to worry about it. No time for anything except to close his eyes and hope for the best.

Nervous eyes didn't stay closed for long. The sound of the door being swung open, creaking on neglected hinges as it went, triggered Dave's eyelids to fly up and take in the scene in front of him. Two mortal enemies were practically tripping over each other in their mad dash towards him. It took all of his willpower not to roll out of the way for fear of being stampeded.

'_Even if you get a boot to the face, you can't move'_, he instructed himself. '_You're supposed to be dying!'_ And so he lay there, as still as possible, with as much of a wounded expression as he could muster. He waited for Hit Girl to assess the situation and take hold of Red Mist. Hopefully before the latter figured it out and tried to fuck someone up...

He had expected Hit Girl to make some sort of exclamation. A gasp, maybe. A cry of disbelief. Or, more likely, an expletive of the type an eleven year old is normally prohibited from saying. His first guess was correct. The gasp that hit his ears was unmistakably Mindy. Guilt flooded his already over brimming emotions. It had never been his intention to freak his partner out. He wanted to roll over and show her his spotless clothing, untouched by blood. It's not real! Everything's ok! Let's go get Katie and get out of here! But he hadn't expected the reaction that Red Mist promptly exhibited.

A war cry of agony spilled out from lungs Dave would never have thought capable of emitting such a sound. The boy who had ruthlessly kidnapped his girlfriend just a short time ago was now wailing in sorrow, practically screaming in his despair. The costumed boy collapsed at Dave's side, tears streaming and causing black makeup to run down his face in the process. Behind him, Hit Girl simply stood there, dumbfounded.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this! You can't die! Fuck...god fucking dammit..." He buried his face in the collar of Dave's shirt, not even seeming to notice that his former partner was completely devoid of his normal green costume. It was _Dave_ who lay on the sidewalk in front of the bowling alley, not _Kick Ass_. Red Mist hadn't even flinched. To him, Dave _was _Kickass, just like he _was _Red Mist. There was no longer any line of distinction, despite the fact that he had never actually seen Dave outside of the costume in real life. Black smeared tears rubbed themselves into the striped collar as Chris continued to sob unapologetically. Dave didn't know what to think, except that he needed to get inside. Check on Katie. Make sure she was ok. _Because she had to be ok. She had to be._

He chanced a look past Red Mist's spiky hair to the petite figure standing behind the two of them. Hit Girl still looked flabbergasted. She made a gesture and mouthed words that Dave was fairly certain translated to "what the fuck?" Ignoring her confusion, he instead mouthed his own question back to her. Wordless inquiry begged her for the status on Katie. She smiled and nodded her head, letting him know that his girlfriend was safe inside. He had to suppress the relieved grin that had spread across his face when Red Mist pulled his head up and stared at him.

Dave did his best impression of a death cough and continued the performance, still unsure of whether or not Red Mist had a weapon on him. "I don't think I have much time left." It caused the other boy to burst into another set of sobs and then, quite unexpectedly, to plant the most passionate and fervent kiss that Dave had ever received on his lips.

To shocked to do anything, Dave simply lay there, allowing the other boy's mouth to engulf his own. Sure, he had shared several kisses with Red Mist a few weeks prior, but the other boy had been drugged up to the eyeballs at the time. And there had been...extenuating circumstances to explain those encounters. Or so he had told himself afterwards. This was...what was this? _He's gotten better at it, though. _Shoving this strange thought aside, he struggled to figure out what to do next.

He didn't need to. Hit Girl made that decision for him.

Without warning, a white hot pain shot through his lip as blood rushed hurriedly out. Red Mist's teeth had, once again, clamped down on soft flesh. "Ow!" he started to yowl, when he realized the cause of the bite. Standing above him, Hit Girl was rubbing one fist in another, having just recently coupled it with the back of Red Mist's head.

"Dude, what the hell? You can't just go around kissing people!" Thoroughly appalled, she turned her attention to Dave. "Since when has he had a crush on you?" Her eyes glazed over for a second, as if suddenly remembering something, "oh God, the meat cleaver comment..."

They both looked down at the now unconscious Red Mist lying on cold concrete, Dave's blood lining his lips like some sort of sadistic lipstick. Hit Girl sighed. "Can we _please _kill him now?"

.

.

He wasn't out for very long. Only a handful of seconds had passed when Chris dizzily came to. Dave was missing, having ran inside the bowling alley to rescue Katie. Hit Girl sat on a short curb next to the building, randomly pulling weapons out of her arsenal and studying them. Dave had yelled at her to "hold off for a second" as he had run inside. She was currently trying to decide whether to listen to him or not when Chris spoke.

"Where's Kick Ass?" His question was a mixture of panic and anger.

She polished a knife on her shirt. "Why? You wanna kiss him again or something?"

"Or something..." Memories were a little fuzzy. His head was on fire. But he was pretty sure that last he saw, the object of his obsession had been dying on the sidewalk. Whipping his head around (and causing stars to flash in his eyesight in the process), he noted that the lack of blood filling the pavement. He had only shot a handful of people so far, but they had always bled quite a bit. It didn't make sense.

"Oh yeah," Hit Girl said casually. "He's not dead, if that's what you're thinking. And the fact that you fell for that trick? Means you're an even bigger idiot than I thought." Her eyes were pure hate. Chris didn't know whether to be relieved that Dave was ok or enraged about the deception.

"One more thing." There was a pause, and then before he knew it, Hit Girl had come at him like a bullet train. One minute she had been perched on the curb, the next she was at his side. He yelped in pain as a sharp object entered his thigh. "Your makeup is running."

One hand instinctively went up to his face, wet with tears that ran down his mask. The black powder clung to the tips of his fingers as he brought it down to his aching leg. It mixed with the blood that pumped out like water from a sieve. "Fucking bitch," he whimpered.

She grinned. "I get that a lot."

.

.

Rushing into the back room, Dave had no idea what he expected to see. His imagination had flashed the worst possible scenarios as his trip to his girlfriend brought him through a trail of dead mobsters. Death hung in the air like something palatable. What Red Mist was capable of, he had no idea. So when he flung the door open in order to see Katie tied to a chair, black eye and dried blood clinging to her forehead, he instead felt a strange sense of relief. It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

"Dave!" she cried out, unable to move except to bob her head enthusiastically.

"I'm here, don't worry!" He reached her and began to untie the ropes from around her arms. "Are you ok?"

Stupid question, but she seemed to be on the same wavelength as him, realizing that all in all she was very lucky. "I'm fine, mostly. My leg hurts though." He noted that her knee was also housing dried blood, as well as some not-so-dried blood. A flash of anger at Red Mist. What had he been thinking? What was all of this about? She interrupted his thoughts. "But what about you? I heard gunshots! And the cops!"

Dave shook his head, hands still busy untying strings of rope. "It was Marty. He had come with me, we were..uh, coming to spy on you. Because of the druggie guy. When we realized it was Red Mist, we just came up with that on the spot. I had the megaphone in my car. Don't ask."

"But how did you get the gun?"  
>Dave stopped for a second. "Don't get mad. My friend gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I didn't want to freak you out that I had it."<p>

"Your friend, meaning Hit Girl..." she had a strange look on her face.

"Yeah. Don't be jealous. She's eleven."

Katie made a sound that might have been a laugh, if she were able to find anything funny under the circumstances. "If I should be jealous of anyone, I suppose it would be Chris. He's the one with the creepy obsessive crush."

"Red Mist? Yeah..." he drifted off, wondering what Katie would say if she knew about the kiss that had literally just happened minutes ago. "I mean, you don't need to be jealous. Even if he's into me, I'm not into him. I'm not into _guys_."

And now she was laughing. It came out stilted and harsh, like she hadn't laughed in a thousand years. "Sorry," she apologized. "It's just ironic, because of how we got together." He finished pulling the last bit of rope from her, releasing her legs. "But seriously. It freaked me out, he's really into you. Like, _really_ into you. And I don't think that he completely understands it either."

"We've got to get you out of here." Dave helped her to stand up. "Can you walk?" She nodded and he started pushing her toward the door, pulling a cell phone out of his pocket as he did so. The phone rang on the other end and a voice answered. "Marty," he spoke into the mouthpiece. "We're coming out. Pull the car up."


	10. Chapter 10

Dave returned to a scene that could have been taken straight out of a horror movie. Something about it brought his memories rushing back to the first time he had ever encountered Hit Girl. Blood was everywhere. It soaked and spread throughout the fractured pavement in oceanic proportions, seeping into cracks and in some cases, spilling over into a nearby drain.

The little purple offender (partner - he had to remind himself) stood spread legged over a limp and barely moving mess of black and red. Mostly red. She held a small knife of some sort of which he would never be able to guess the name, dangling over the downed boy's throat. Several other knives protruded out of various spots on Red Mist's body.

She looked up. "Hey." The greeting was casual, nothing in her tone seeming to take into account that she was currently torturing someone. Dave felt a bit of bile rush into his throat. He hastily swallowed it back down. "Where's Katie?" she asked.

It took him a second to remember. To pull his mind away from the gruesomeness of the scene. "She's safe. Marty took her out the back in his car."

Now it was Hit Girl's turn to look blank faced. "There was a back entrance?"

Dave cleared his throat. More bile. "Not really, but there was an alley and a side window in the main room."

"Oh." She turned her attention back to her captive. "Ok, good." Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere. "Wanna see something neat?" I've stabbed him in a bunch of veins already, I'm saving the major arteries for last. Don't want him to bleed out too fast, but once I hit those, he's as good as gone in a matter of seconds."

"Why are you doing this?!" The anger rising from his voice surprised both of them.

"And you care, why? You do realize he was _just_ torturing your girlfriend a matter of minutes ago?"  
>"No! I mean, well...yeah, but not like this. Katie is ok. The worst of it isn't even that bad." The words that were coming out of his mouth stunned him even as he said them. It wasn't that he wasn't angry. That he wasn't scared. That he didn't care about Katie. He did! Just...this whole thing had just gotten so out of hand. Nothing made any sense anymore.<p>

And then she asked it. The Question. That query that had been floating around his head the last several weeks like a skipping record. "Do you actually like him too?"

"What?" He uneasily put a hand up to the back of his neck.

"Red Mist. He's, like, obsessed with you." Katie's comment from earlier landed back into his head to coincide with Hit Girl's observation. _"He's really into you. Like, really into you." _And then everything from _that night _came back, the drugged kisses, the confessions that the villain had confided, albeit unknowingly. The way that the other boy's body had felt against his own as he had shared that first embrace on the cushions of the couch. It hadn't been _bad_, just strange. And the _want, _the _need _that Red Mist had shown for him. Not even Katie had ever displayed such an basic, essential desire for him. Making out with Katie was awesome, but he had never felt like she really needed him. At least not the way the other boy had wanted him. And it had felt nice to feel so significant.

Hit Girl's voice came slamming down like a jackhammer, her need to know the truth knocking him back into reality. "Do you like him too? Like he likes you?"

It took him a second to find the words to explain. He wasn't going to lie, even if she didn't like the truth. He owed her that much. His breath hitched. "I do like him. Not in the same way that he likes me, it's not sexual..." _That's a lie_, a tiny voice in the back of his head scolded. At least a little. Damn Red Mist and his skinny, feminine body. He had no desire to have sex with the other boy, but he'd be damned if the thought of running his hands over the other boy's hips and chest didn't excite him just a little. He quickly finished his viewpoint before any of this _other _information came out. "I just feel some kind of connection or understanding or something."

She scowled. "He doesn't have understanding. He's sadistic and psychopathic and insane."

"That's not true," Dave corrected her, fully aware that she was still holding a weapon. Not that she would use it on him, but it was aimed pretty close to Red Mist's throat. After a pause, he amended himself. "Well, maybe so. I don't know what kind of psychopathic shit he has going on in his head...and I'm sure that he does, I'm not denying that. But there's more to it than that. He's a person. He has feelings. He doesn't deserve this. He deserves a psych ward."

"Yeah, he has feelings all right. The kind like he wants to cut you up like a piece of meat. I overheard him, Kick Ass. He wants to hurt you. That's why he took Katie in the first place. He wants to fuck you, but he also wants to fuck you up. Doesn't that bother you?" Her voice was growing in volume with each word.

There was something to the way that Hit Girl was looking at him. Mindy's eyes beneath the purple mask, full of emotion. _Pleading_. If he didn't know any better, Dave might have thought that she was the one who had the crush on him. He couldn't help it, but the nervous laughter that escaped his lips betrayed any chance of keeping this notion from her.

"What?" She was pissed. Too pissed. Something _had_ to be going on.

Dave put his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not trying to make things worse, but Mi-Hit Girl..." In a matter of seconds he already almost gave away her secret identity. This wasn't going over very well. He paused, trying to figure out the best way to reveal his theory. "You aren't...jealous, are you?"

Her eyes were like saucers. "What? No! Of course not!"

For the first time since Dave had returned, Red Mist lifted his head slightly. "That better not be true."

"Fuck you!" Her fist hit him square in the jaw. You had to give it to the costumed boy, he didn't even flinch, despite the fact that she was holding a deadly weapon close to his jugular. He hawked a bloody piece of spit on the pavement. Despite the multiple wounds currently bleeding out slowly across his body, for the first time he had forgotten all about the pain. It was back to this again. Him and Dave. It had always been about him and Dave. And if Hit Girl was in the way... Logic quickly exiting stage left, his neurons were firing straight bolts of jealous emotion.

He opened his mouth, "He'd never go for an prepubescent child like you. I mean, look at you. You look like you're nine years old for fuck's sake."

"And _you're _more of his type?! Are you forgetting that you're a guy?" Her heated expression softened for a moment and morphed into a laugh. "Or is that it? You don't actually have a dick, so it works out?" To make her point, she sent one of her industrial boots into his groin as hard as she could. He cried out and folded his body in on itself as much as was possible while still harboring several knives pricking out of his legs and torso.

"Stop it, you two!" Dave yelled, running closer to the two of them. He realized that the expression sounded retarded as soon as he said it, but there was just no accounting for how to react to the events that had been unfolding themselves as of late.

"What happened back at my base when I left?" Hit Girl had abandoned her victim in order to take a step closer to Dave. "Did you guys do...anything? Why does he think he has a chance with you?"

There was no turning back now unless he wanted to come up with a set of elaborate lies to cover up the real story. Which was something that Dave had never been good at. He sighed. "He was drunk, and drugged. You remember."

"Yeah, I remember." Her arms were folded across her chest now. Her reaction was strangely closer to how he would have expected Katie to have reacted. A jealous girlfriend.

"He wanted to kiss me."

There was a pause. One of those types that people were apt to call a pregnant pause."So you DID?"

"The first time was technically CPR. He had stopped breathing - "

"The FIRST time?" He expression was something between livid and shock. Like she wasn't sure the correct face for the occasion.

"Yeah, well...there might have been two other...encounters..." seeing her eyes growing massive, he corrected himself quickly. "Encounters meaning kisses, not, like...gay encounters."

"Kissing IS a gay encounter!"

"Got you there," came a cough from Red Mist.

"Just...shut up right now," Dave instructed. Hit Girl looked like she couldn't decide to attack Dave or Red Mist or just start crying. So that answered _that _question too. Goddammit, why did everyone have to have a crush on him? It wasn't nearly as awesome as it might seem to be.

Trying to compose herself, Hit Girl took in a deep breath and dusted off her costume. Feeling a sense of remorse, Dave walked up to her and threw his arms around her small body. She was still. Her arms didn't cross around to his back. She just stood there, but he could feel small jerks from her frame which he assumed was quiet weeping.

"You were ok with Katie."

"No, I wasn't. But this is worse. Like, a thousand times worse. He's the bad guy."

"I know."

And they stood there for awhile. From the corner of his eye, he could see Red Mist looking up at them. The little villain, for once, didn't seem to be planning anything. Maybe it was a delayed sense of integrity although Dave was willing to bet it had more to do with the loss of blood.

Finally, Hit Girl spoke. "So what now? You're not going to let me kill him?"

"No."

"Even after what he did to your girlfriend?"

"No."

"I'll make it quick. He'll barely feel it." Even though she was wrapped in his arms, he could tell she was smiling. She knew she had lost the battle but she was ok with it, for whatever reason. She could be an enigma sometimes. Fuck it, all of the time.

They ended the embrace and Dave looked down at the bleeding body beneath him. Red Mist looked back up at him, dried blood running down his face and crunching pieces of his hair together.

"If I pull these knives out, is he going to bleed out?" Dave asked his cohort.

"Probably. You might just want to call the cops this time. Let them deal with it." she pulled a face. "I'm actually really surprised they aren't here already, after the gunshot and everything." Her face was still shiny from tears, even though she had done her best to dry them off.

"Yeah, we live in a shitty town," Dave shrugged. He knelt down next to Red Mist. "I think I'm gonna call the police. They're gonna take you to the hospital first, but after that you might want to plead insanity."

"You'd really do that to me? Seriously, man? I thought you and I had something!" He punched his fist on the ground. "You're such a fucking dick. I hate you." The eyes beneath the mask were impossible to read.

"You kidnapped my girlfriend, dude! You're lucky I'm letting you off so easy!"

Red Mist's eyes were razors now. "She doesn't even love you. She told me so."

"Ha!" Hit Girl's voice was amused. "You're such a dickweed liar! You _so _deserve to have a limb or two cut off."

"Come on!" Red Mist's eyes were the pleading ones now. He pulled both arms up, albeit with difficulty as they were covered with spikes like a pincushion, and grabbed Dave's shirt. "Help me up! Fight crime with me again! Let's just get back to how everything used to be. Come on, what do you say?"

"It won't be the same. Not now. Not after everything." Dave had to concentrate to keep his voice from cracking. "You shot Hit Girl, you tortured my girlfriend. I can't forgive that."

"But you said it yourself, I'm sick!" Red Mist's hands were shaking now. The blood was beginning to run down the slick costume. "I can get help! I can get off the weed, get my head clear, see a shrink or something!"

"I'm sorry." Dave stepped back, letting the gripping hands fall off of his shirt. "I really am."

Red Mist screamed, "I'd go on meds for you! I'd never even do that for my dad! Come on, Dave!"

"Don't call him that," Hit Girl interrupted. "He's Kick Ass to you."

Dave looked over to her. "There's a phone booth across the street. Could you make an anonymous call to the police?" She watched him intently, indescribable expression on her face. Finally she turned in a huff and hurried across the street.

Dave took the chance to grab Red Mist by the hand. He look intently into the saddest expression he'd ever seen. Was it all still just a lie? A ploy? At any second, would the little criminal whip out an unseen weapon and attack him? He'd take the chance. "It was good while it lasted. I mean, at least the parts that were good. I'm sorry about your dad. About your life. It must have been hard. It makes sense that you have...problems."

If anyone else had said it, Chris would have punched them, but he just lay there silent. Listening. All thoughts of hurting Dave were currently on hold, his mind back to obsession-mode. This lovely boy with the beautiful lips in front of him, he was memorized.

"So, this is the best thing. You're going to get the help you need."

And with that, the villain-want-to-be, the child who tried too hard to fill his father's shoes, finally gave up. Lack of blood rendered his mind incapable of deep thoughts or further schemes. Finally, he simply sighed. "It hurts."

Dave pushed fluffy hair out of his un-costumed face, unconsciously getting tiny spots of blood in his locks. He grimaced. "I know. But they're coming to bring you to the hospital."

"Not that. Losing you. It hurts."

Dave didn't know how to reply. He simply sat there on the blood-covered pavement, responses appearing in his head only to be rendered unsaid.

"Can I ask you something?" The injured boy asked.

"Yeah."

"I can't really remember it. I think I was fucked up at the time, so the memory is vague. Could you...do you think you could...?" he couldn't bring himself to finish the question, but Dave was pretty sure he knew the query. Leaning down, Dave planted one last kiss on bloody lips. Whether or not Mindy could see them from the phone booth across the street, he didn't care. He'd explain it to her later. Or maybe he wouldn't. This wasn't the type of thing that could be explained. He wasn't sure he could even explain it to himself.

When they were finished, he was pretty sure he could hear a siren in the background. It was either a cop car coming for them, or just going after some other delinquent in this crime-ridden city. Either way, the cops were coming for them and they needed to be out of there when that happened. He stood up. "I hope everything turns out for you. I hope you get the help you need."

"Was it all an act? Did you ever really care about me?"

"There was never an act. You just took things too far, you realize that right?"

There was no answer. Dave pushed a piece of hair out of Red Mist's face, weakly smiled, and with that, he was gone. Booking it for the nearest hiding spot. Hit Girl had already scaled a wall and was waiting in silence. She would have questions for him, he knew. Whether or not she talked about the apparent crush that she had on him, he had no idea. He'd have to deal with Katie too, make sure she was ok. So much had happened in the last couple of weeks, he needed time himself to deal with everything.

By the time he managed to scale the wall, he sat with Mindy in silence as they watched to make sure the villain didn't crawl away. He didn't even move. No grabbing of a cell phone to call for a getaway car, no trying to pull knives out of bleeding veins. Just nothing. When the cops came, and an ambulance pulled up beside the white police cars, he simply allowed himself to be lifted onto a gurney and handcuffed to the side of the device. At one moment, he shifted his head and looked directly at Dave. His expression was one of contentment, of all things. It was confusing. Either blood loss had finally calmed the little firecracker down, or Dave's words had pushed some button that had desperately been needing to be pushed, there was no way of knowing. But he was being taken away, and life could go back to normal. At least, as normal as being a crime fighter would allow.

"So," Mindy finally said. "You still wanna keep doing this, or is it getting to be too much?"

"I still want to help people. And I think that I am. So yes. Let's keep going."


End file.
